


Soulbond Shorts

by Deastar



Series: They Say Love Heals All Wounds [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:42:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7277668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deastar/pseuds/Deastar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are little drabbles set in the universe of They Say Love Heals All Wounds that are too short to qualify as proper sequels - enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sid confronts his new responsibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief mention of suicidal ideation. Also, I haven't posted the sequel yet where Sid starts therapy, but he DOES get therapy, and he references it here.

_A couple of weeks after the end of They Say Love Heals All Wounds:_

Sid used to meet with Jen every other week about media and appearance requests. Since everything, they’re up to every three days or so.

“We’ve also been getting requests for you to participate in this summer’s pride parades,” Jen says, looking down at her notes. “To lead them, actually. From Pittsburgh, of course, and from… well, from basically every major city in Canada, but I already turned down all of them except Halifax and Toronto.” She looks back up at Sid, face and voice carefully neutral, and asks, “What should I tell them, Sid?”

Sid hesitates. Before all of this, he’d thought he knew the weight of responsibility as a public figure and a role model. Now, he knows he had no fucking idea. He’d thought the letters might stop coming after the first few weeks, when his outing became old news. But they haven’t. If he reads them all— _I quit hockey because I thought people like me couldn’t make it; the night you came out I had finally decided to kill myself, but now I have hope; my dad threw me out three years ago but he loves you so maybe he’ll want me to come home now_ —they’ll break his heart, so Jen and Pat handle most of them. But he sees enough of them to know how much is riding on him now – on how Sid performs in the starring role of “openly gay athlete.” And so he knows how he should answer Jen.

What comes out of his mouth, though, is: “I can’t.”

Once it’s out, he can’t bring himself to take it back. It’s the truth, and he thinks that should count for something. He repeats, quietly, “I can’t. I—maybe next year. But right now, I can’t act like my being out to the world is something to—to smile about, and wave, and be proud of. I didn’t come out,” he tells her, hoping for understanding. “This isn’t something I did. It’s not something I chose – not something I think I ever would have chosen. It’s something that happened to me. How can I be proud of something that was—was _done_ to me?” God knows if that even makes any sense.

But Jen nods, and he can’t see any judgment in her expression. “That’s what I expected,” she tells him, matter-of-factly. “Your job this summer is to take care of yourself, and Geno. There’ll be time for other things later.”

“Thanks,” Sid whispers. It still surprises him, sometimes, when people approve of him doing what he wants instead of what he knows he should. But Taylor told him last week, “When somebody does that, it means they want you to be happy more than they want you to be perfect. It’s good, Sid.” And he thinks there’s some truth in that. It means a lot to him that Jen is one of those people. He smiles at her, tentatively, and she smiles back with real warmth.

She looks back down at her notes, then, and comments idly, “The guys who’ve done interviews showing support, getting out in the press – they’re getting requests, too.”

Sid feels a lurch of guilt – it isn’t right that the price for his friends’ support is them getting pestered. He starts, “I’ll apologize to th—”

Jen looks at him like he’s crazy. “Apologize?” Then, suddenly, her eyes go soft, and she says, gently, “Sid. They’re saying yes.”

Sid blinks, thrown. “They’re… saying yes?”

“Sid, they’re _honored_ ,” Jen tells him, still in that gentle tone. Her smile has a sad tinge to it that Sid doesn’t really understand. “Flower’s going to be grand marshal of the Montreal pride parade, and his only condition was that they had to let Tanger and Duper be his co-marshals.”

“Oh.” Sid takes a moment to assimilate that. “Wow.” Flower and Tanger and Duper have always supported Sid, never made him feel weird or left-out or wrong. But that support has always, necessarily, been private. They’ve never been faced with the choice between making themselves targets by supporting Sid publicly or staying out of the line of fire by keeping quiet. Sid knows that, by virtue of his sexual orientation, anyone else on the team will be suspect for as long as he plays. He wouldn’t have blamed any of his teammates for keeping their heads down instead of speaking up and attracting more attention. But when he pictures Flower and Tanger and Duper sitting on a parade float together, wearing rainbow-colored shirts, waving to a crowd holding rainbow flags, it makes him feel warm inside. Scared, too, for them, but mostly… warm. He thinks he’d like to see that.

Sid doesn’t think he’s ready to say he’s proud to be gay. He’s pretty sure, actually, that he’s _not_ proud to be gay, even if he wouldn’t say he’s ashamed, either. But he thinks that’s something that he’d like to change. Maybe this new therapy stuff can help with that. And in the meantime, it turns out Sid has plenty to be proud of already.

 _Jen told me you’re leading the gay pride parade in Montreal_ , he texts Flower later.

 _So excited!_ Flower texts back. _Second-best parade in the world after Cup parade!!!_

 _I’m proud of you_ , Sid tells him, smiling helplessly at his phone.

Sid’s not ready, yet, to be proud of the love he has to give. But he’s proud as hell of the love other people have given him, and of those people: of Flower, and Taylor, and Jen, and his mom, and of course, Geno. He’s proud to have them in his life, and to be worthy of their love. And he thinks that’s a pretty good place to start.


	2. Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the student is the teacher. Takes place one month after the end of They Say Love Heals All Wounds.

 Geno’s phone buzzes, which isn’t unusual – the two of them have been getting almost nonstop calls for a month. Sid has already had to change numbers. But when Geno picks it up and reads the caller ID, he smiles, which is very unusual, and actually picks up, saying, “Seryozha.”

Sid whispers, “Gonch?” and Geno nods.

Sid ducks out of the kitchen to give Geno some privacy, messing with his own phone in the dining room. But a few minutes later, he hears Geno raise his voice – he sounds angry.

Sid runs into the kitchen to find Geno repeating, “ _Nyet, nyet, Seryozha—_ ” and looking almost… afraid. Sid’s heart twists in his chest. He’d thought Gonch was on their side. He’d thought Gonch would stand by Geno.

Suddenly, Geno thrusts the phone at Sid. “He say he talk to you,” he tells Sid, clearly frustrated.

Sid takes the phone. “What did you say to Geno?” he demands.

“I said Pittsburgh offered me a PTO for next season, and that I’m going to take it,” Gonch says dryly. “Outrageous, I know.”

“Oh,” Sid says, taken aback. “Well, that’s… that’s really great. It’s great!”

“Thank you,” Gonch huffs.

At the same time, Geno growls, “ _Not_ great. Ruin everything for family, for reputation – I tell him I don’t want, I tell him stay away, for Ksenia and girls—”

Sid blinks. _Well, that’s familiar_ , he thinks. “Gonch,” he says into the phone, “I’m going to call you back, okay?”

“Talk some sense into him!” Gonch shouts before Sid ends the call.

“Bad he still talk to me,” Geno says sharply, pacing up and down the kitchen floor. “ _Worse_ he say nice things about me to press – and now he gonna make even more worse, more _dangerous_ , Sid! He’s not know what people gonna say, what people gonna think, if he—”

“Geno,” Sid says, cutting him off, “here’s the thing. If I’m not allowed to push away the people I love to protect them…” Sid takes a deep breath and bulls ahead. “Then you shouldn’t be, either. I let you love me, even though I was so scared for you,” he adds more softly. “Let Gonch love you. You know you’re like a son to him.”

Geno stops pacing and just looks at Sid, his mouth hanging open a little. He looks and looks. And Sid looks back. He can be patient. God knows it took _him_ long enough to learn this.

Finally, Geno says quietly, “I want to say is different, Sid.”

“I don’t think it is,” Sid replies, just as quiet.

Geno sighs, and his shoulders sag down – he looks half-relieved, half-disappointed. “You right. I don’t like, but you right. Fuck.” He holds out his arms and Sid steps close, lets Geno fold him up. “So hard to do,” Geno breathes against Sid’s ear. “So scared for him. But you right. Except I’m not son,” he mutters, “I’m annoying little brother. But he love anyway.”

Sid smiles. “Yeah, he does.”

Geno calls Gonch back and apologizes, and they talk for a while longer. When he hangs up, he tells Sid, “Gonch say Penguins make him offer – even if PTO don’t work, they offer him job, player development. They do for me, Sid.”

“Give Gonch some credit,” Sid says, narrowing his eyes. “He _is_ good with young players. _You_ turned out pretty good, anyway. And he’s a good defenseman, with a lot of experience with different teams, and a lot he can teach.”

Geno blows out another sigh and leans against the kitchen counter, crossing his feet in front of him. “I’m not say he don’t deserve, Sid. But is not—just funny thing, happen for no reason, don’t know English word…”

“Coincidence,” Sid supplies. “No, you’re probably right. It’s not a coincidence, the team making this offer when they know you’re… you could use some support. But it’s Gonch’s choice whether he wants to take it or not. You can’t take that away from him, either.”

“No,” Geno agrees. He squints at Sid. “You so bad at this. I know you _most_ bad at this. How you tell me all this, straight face?”

“Because I’ve learned,” Sid says, and it’s the truth. He knows Geno can read that. “I’m not the same as I was before, when I tried to decide for you whether we could love each other or not. I learned better.” _I changed for you._

He walks over to Geno and kisses him—just a brief little brush of lips—then tilts his head up to meet Geno’s eyes. “I learned that from you.”

“I teach you,” Geno mumbles, leaning in to smile against Sid’s cheek, “and now you teach me back. Yes. This is good.”

“It is.”

When they kiss again, it’s slow and almost solemn – like a vow.


	3. Big and Small

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they take the girls skating for the first time on their third birthday, Sid tries not to make a big thing out of it.

When they take the girls skating for the first time on their third birthday, Sid tries not to make a big thing out of it. What if the girls don’t like it? Worse, what if they feel like they _have_ to like it, because there are a bunch of people watching, _expecting_ them to like it? No. That’s not what Sid wants for them.

So he keeps it small – just him and Geno and the Lemieuxs. When the girls take their first strides onto the ice, he and Geno are the only ones watching.

Sid never wants to put any pressure on the girls, especially about hockey. He’ll love them just as much even if their reaction to the ice is just a shrug and “It’s okay.”

But he… he hopes. Hockey has been such an enormous part of his life. It’s brought him so much joy. And it would mean so much to share that with his girls.

The girls are both wide-eyed as they toddle onto the ice in their tiny skates; they know this is what Daddy and Papa do, and they know this is where Daddy and Papa skate. Sid takes Anya’s hand, and Geno tries to take Katya’s, but she bulls ahead without any help, and Sid and Geno share a grin.

Within five minutes, Katya is tearing around the ice, crowing, “Look at me, Papa, I’m _skating_!” and chortling when she overbalances and lands on her butt. It’s unbelievably cute. Nathalie helps her up and hands her a little toddler-sized hockey stick, which Katya grips triumphantly and immediately drags over to Sid and Geno to show it off. “I’m a hockey player!” she announces, and starts batting at their skates with her tiny stick.

“Two minutes for tripping,” Geno announces cheerfully, sweeping Katya up and carrying her over toward the penalty box while she shrieks with joy.

When Sid looks for Anya, he’s not surprised to find her halfway around the rink, slowly, methodically trundling along all by herself, and barely falling down at all. Sid can’t help a smile – they’re so different, his girls.

He skates over to Anya, who looks up at him and says, “Hi, Daddy,” before returning her focus to the ice in front of her.

“Hey, Annushka,” Sid asks, quietly, “stay with me for a second.”

Anya stops obediently and cranes her neck up to look at him again. She doesn’t even come up to his hip yet.

Sid finds himself nervous when he asks, “What do you think, Anya? Do you like it?”

She cocks her head, thoughtful. “Yes,” she decides. “But I feel really small.”

Sid cocks his head, relieved and confused all at once. “Small? Why’s that? You’re bigger on skates, you know,” he teases.

Anya nods solemnly. “But the ice is so big,” she whispers, staring across the broad sheet of mostly-empty ice – across the smooth, shining expanse of it. Sid knows what she means.

He sits down on the ice, not minding that he’s going to melt it, and pulls Anya close. “Yeah. It is big,” he tells her seriously. “And I know what you mean about it making you feel small. Not bad-small, right? Good-small?”

“Yes,” she agrees.

“Yeah.” Sid smiles softly. “That feeling never goes away,” he confesses. He's never told anyone this, but Anya, his wise girl, already understands it - of course she does. “Even when you get as big as me, it’ll still make you feel small sometimes. The ice is always bigger than you. Bigger than me or Papa. The things that happen on the ice are big. But being a part of those big things on the ice can make you feel big, too.”

Anya meets Sid's eyes, solemn. “I can do big things on the ice, Daddy,” she tells him, with absolute certainty.

Sid feels a smile spread over his face, wide and sweet. “You can, Annushka,” he agrees. “I believe it.”

He feels a gentle _thwack_ against his knee, and when he looks down, he sees a puck. From across the ice, he hears Katya cheering, “I got Daddy!”

“Best shot,” Geno says, and Sid can hear the grin in his voice. “Bauer gonna give you endorsement deal for sure.”

“Come on,” Sid says, getting up from the ice and offering Anya the puck. “Let’s go play with Papa and Katya.”

Anya doesn’t take the puck, though – instead, she scoots around Sid to his other side, and takes his hand shyly. “Just for now,” she says quickly.

Sid’s heart grows ten sizes in his chest. “Just for now,” he murmurs, bittersweet. It’s true – she won’t always need to hold his hand. And he’ll be proud when she doesn’t need him anymore, but oh, he can already feel how much he’ll miss it – her small hand wrapped up in his. “Just for now,” he repeats. He’ll enjoy every second of it, for as long as it lasts.


	4. Catching Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sid comes back from his first therapy appointment.

When Sid goes to his first counseling session, Zhenya has to take Jeffrey out in the yard and wrestle with him to keep from going out of his mind with worry. For Zhenya, the idea of Sid voluntarily telling a stranger his deepest secrets is about as plausible as the idea of Sid moving to Philadelphia and dyeing his hair orange – but Sid seems to believe or at least hope that this will make him happier. And Zhenya can’t argue with that.

The sound of the glass door sliding open signals that Sid is back from his appointment.

Zhenya bounds up to the door to supply whatever comfort Sid might need, but Sid actually reads pretty normal. He gives Zhenya a kiss hello and then follows Zhenya out into the backyard. When Zhenya sits in the grass—checking first for any presents from Jeffrey—Sid joins him, leaning against Zhenya’s shoulder.

“Appointment good?” Zhenya asks.

“Yeah,” Sid says, sounding a little surprised, although not as surprised as _Zhenya_ is to hear it. “It was good. It was a lot like seeing a new trainer for the first time: we set some goals, talked about what my assets are, what my challenges are. I told her about my… old injuries,” Sid adds, with a wince of a smile. “Stuff like that.”

Zhenya tries to absorb that. He hazards, “So counselor is like trainer for… feelings?”

“Yeah. That’s right.”

Put that way, it doesn’t sound so bad. “She give you stretches?” Zhenya teases, “give you workout?”

But Sid smiles and says, “Yeah, actually. But she did say we’ve been doing really good so far, actually. The way we’ve been talking to each other, things like that. So that’s good to hear.”

“Is good, yes,” Zhenya agrees.

Sid doesn’t say anything else, so eventually Zhenya nudges him and asks, “What exercise?”

“Oh.” Sid falls back into the grass and smiles up at the sky. “Well, one thing she suggested might be good for me, if I want to, was to sort of… start catching up on all the relationship stuff I didn’t get to try when I was a teenager. And I think that… that sounds really good.”

Sid rolls his head to the side so he can look at Zhenya. The sun is bright enough in the clear sky that he has to squint a little. He asks, “Want to just… make out here in the grass for like an hour?”

Zhenya can’t think of anything he wants more. The grass is soft and the sunlight is brilliant and warm, and Zhenya doesn’t think he could ever kiss Sid enough. He tugs Sid close and lets Sid be his everything: blocks out every sound except Sid’s contented hums and the soft sounds of their lips meeting and parting; every taste but the clean, familiar taste of Sid’s mouth; every touch but the touch of Sid’s hands on his chest, Sid’s hair silky between Zhenya’s fingers; every thought but Sid’s quiet pleasure blossoming in Zhenya’s reading. Zhenya doesn’t need anything else.

At some point—maybe it really has been an hour—when Zhenya’s lips are swollen and tender, and his back is damp from being pressed to the breathing earth, Sid pulls away with a sigh, and lays his head on Zhenya’s chest.

“Let’s do that some more tomorrow,” he says. He shivers when Zhenya pets the back of his neck.

Zhenya’s voice is scratchy when he says, “We do every day if you want.”

“It’s a deal,” Sid murmurs. He settles in more comfortably on Zhenya’s chest, and they stay there, wrapped around each other, until the sun starts to set.


	5. Twenty Kinds of Cereal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geno reads from the list, “Bisexual. Queer. Heterofelixi—fuck. Het-er-o-flex-ib-le.” That one makes him look especially miffed. “Pansexual. Not-gay-I-just-like-Sid.” He twists around and then flops back down, his head in Sid’s lap this time, and mumbles, “Too many sex words, don’t want to pick, I don’t even understand. Worst.”

Sid is sitting on the couch reading a book when Geno trudges into the living room, scowling and looking a little hunted.

Sid raises his eyebrows – he didn’t think Geno was doing anything more stressful today than lifting weights with Kades and having a chat with Jen. He takes a guess that it’s the latter that’s got Geno in a funk, and asks, “How did the meeting with Jen go?”

Geno groans. “Worst.” He slumps dramatically on the sofa. “She say I have to pick sex word and I don’t want.”

Sid tries to translate that. He repeats, “Jen wanted you to pick… a sex word?” Nope, he’s got nothing.

Geno explains, with a frown, “She say reporters ask what’s word for me, you know, like… word for what I am by what kind of person I like, guys, girls, whatever, you know.”

_Oh_ , Sid thinks, getting it now. He’s wondered about that a time or two, himself, but he’s never pressed – for all he knows, Russian culture has totally different ways of categorizing people than they have in North America, and he has no idea if it would even translate. Plus, as long as he knows Geno likes _him_ , the rest of it doesn’t really matter.

Geno tilts his head back to look up at the ceiling, disconsolate, and continues: “So I say gay, you know, this is word I know in English for guy who like guys. But Jen say gay is for I like only men, not girls. So _I_ say I like both, and what is word for person like this?” He lifts his head to glare at Sid. “Then is worst. _English_ is worst.” Sid feels, obscurely, like he ought to apologize for the language he was raised with, but Geno goes on, declaring, “Is no word for this! Or—is too many words. I write down,” he says, pulling a ragged piece of paper out of his pocket.

He reads from the list, lifting an unimpressed eyebrow, “Bisexual. Queer. Heterofelixi—fuck. Het-er-o-flex-ib-le.” That one makes him look especially miffed. “Pansexual. Not-gay-I-just-like-Sid.” He twists around and then flops back down, his head in Sid’s lap this time, and mumbles, “Too many sex words, don’t want to pick, I don’t even understand. Worst.”

Sid pets Geno’s hair sympathetically and tries to think it through. It’s not a problem Sid has ever really had. He knows a lot of gay guys start out telling people—or themselves—that they’re bisexual, but Sid has always known exactly what he is, and what word fits it.

“Well,” he starts, because this part he’s pretty sure of, “I don’t think you actually do have to pick a word. Jen’s right that people will ask, but you don’t have to answer. I think you can just say you don’t want a label, especially a label in a language you didn’t grow up with.”

He keeps running his fingers through Geno’s hair while Geno thinks about that. Finally, Geno says, quiet, “It’s not I don’t want word, though. I think for me, have word is okay – is good, maybe,” he corrects. He stares out at nothing, eyes slightly narrowed, and speaks slowly, as if he’s thinking aloud, having these thoughts for the first time. “I want people know I don’t just like guys – I don’t want people think girls I date, it’s fake with them. I don’t want people think girls stupid or only want money – I don’t want people think I’m kind of person who lie, make fake relationship.”

Sid hadn’t thought of that, but now that he has, he knows it would bother him, too, in Geno’s place – especially since Geno clearly cares deeply for his ex-girlfriend Oksana.

“So the problem’s not that you don’t want a word,” Sid translates, “it’s just that you don’t know which word is right.”

“Yes,” Geno agrees, rolling onto his back and giving Sid a pleading look. “You help me, Sid?”

“Of course I will.” Sid leans down for a quick kiss. “For sure.”

Geno asks, “So what’s right word?”

That’s not the kind of thing Sid can just decide for him, but he thinks he can at least help Geno think through the decision, and maybe give him a little context so he knows more about the words he’s evaluating. He starts, “Well, ‘heteroflexible’ it sounds like you already don’t like…”

“Hard to say,” Geno grumps. “But if it’s right word—”

Sid tries to sum up his understanding of ‘heteroflexible,’ and it turns out to be surprisingly simple: “It’s a word for someone who is mostly straight but every now and then does gay stuff.”

“Not right,” Geno pronounces immediately. “I love you for a long time, want to do gay stuff with you always.”

Sid can’t help a smile at that. “That works for me,” he says, in a massive understatement. “I… how do you feel about the last thing – saying you’re not gay, you just like me?”

Geno makes a disgusted noise. “Big lie, stupid. I like you most, but like other guys, before. Why lie? What good is lie?”

“I don’t know,” Sid says honestly – that’s how he feels about it, certainly, but if it would have been easier for Geno, he’d have kept his mouth shut about it and been supportive. “I guess that leaves ‘bisexual,’ ‘pansexual,’ and ‘queer.’”

“Pansexual is no,” Geno says, pursing his lips. “Sound like I have sex with pans.”

Sid tries to decide whether or not to correct him, but... Geno's not totally wrong. And anyway, if Geno doesn't like the sound of it, then it's not right for him, regardless of the reason. So Sid lets it go.

“Queer is…” Geno breaks off, looking troubled. “Is not nice word, Sid.”

“Oh, wow,” Sid says, trying to figure out how to explain this. “So… it definitely used to be a bad word, but people have sort of… taken it back, and now it’s an okay word. At least, it’s okay for you to say it about yourself.”

Geno looks skeptical. “I don’t think guys on other teams think it’s nice word when they say on the ice.”

“I… no,” Sid says, quietly. “No, they don’t mean it in a nice way.” Sid has twenty years of experience to assure him of that. “To them, it’s not a nice word. But I don’t think they should get to decide.”

“Hmm.” Geno chews a little on his bottom lip. He squints up at Sid and asks, “Queer, bisexual… what’s difference?”

“I’m not an expert on this,” Sid warns, starting to feel a little out of his depth. “But I think basically ‘bisexual’ is for people who like guys and girls, and ‘queer’ is for everybody who likes people who are the same gender as them. So for all guys who like guys and all girls who like girls, whether they like other kinds of people or not.”

Geno considers this. Finally, he asks, “Bisexual is nice word?”

Sid hesitates. “Well, there’s… you know, there’s some stereotypes about bisexual people that aren’t very nice. Like, you know, stereotypes about Russians being ‘enigmatic’ or whatever—” Geno grimaces. “—but Burrows isn’t ever going to be chirping you on the ice like, ‘You fucking bisexual,’ or whatever, you know?” Sid’s never heard anything like that, at least, and he figures he’s probably heard every kind of chirp there is, especially the ones that have to do with sex stuff.

Geno nods and says quietly, “Good.” He curls in toward Sid’s body, and his voice is soft when he explains, “If I pick word for myself, I want it’s nice word, you know? I don’t want to pick word that is yell at me.”

“No,” Sid says, stroking his fingers gently through Geno’s hair. “I get that.”

“Bisexual,” Geno says, slowly, like he’s tasting it. “This is word that say I love you, want you, but before also I love Oksana, and is all real and not pretend or mistake. Yes?”

“Yeah.” That sounds right to Sid, anyway.

Geno hums and snuggles closer to Sid. “Good word,” he says, sounding contented. “I guess English maybe okay.”

Amused, Sid replies, “I’m glad it has your approval.”

“I should expect this,” Geno mutters. “Of course in America, with twenty kinds of cereal, also twenty kinds of sex words for people.”

That surprises a laugh out of Sid. “Yeah, I guess that’s true. I kind of like it, though. All the variety. Everybody can pick what’s right for them, you know?” Just because Sid likes Cheerios and considers himself garden-variety gay doesn’t mean that’s a good fit for everybody, and he gets that.

Geno still looks dubious… but then he shrugs and smiles against Sid’s stomach. He proclaims, “For me, bisexual. And also Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”

“Sounds good to me,” Sid agrees, smiling back.


	6. A Very Good Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pre-season barbecue for the 2015-16 season; takes place in the autumn of 2015, about 4 months after the end of They Say Love Heals All Wounds.

At the end of the start-of-the-season barbecue, Sid is leaning on the porch railing, nursing his last bottle of beer and smiling. It’s been a good night, by which he means, everybody seemed to have fun, the new guys seemed to fit in okay, and nobody’d been weird about having Sid or Geno around their kids. He’d worried about that.

He can hear someone coming toward him from the house; a few seconds later, Phil joins him at the railing, looking out over the backyard. He picks at the label on his beer bottle for a minute. “Good party,” he offers.

“Thanks.”

After another short silence, Phil says, “Back in February, my agent told me I was probably gonna be traded over the summer. Asked where I wanted to go.” He takes a slug of beer. “I told him, ‘Someplace where they’re gonna have something more interesting to talk about than me.’ And he said, ‘How about Pittsburgh?’ and I told him, ‘Yeah, Pittsburgh would be good.’”

Sid absorbs this. It’s true that Phil couldn’t have done much better than here if what he wanted was to play second fiddle to a much bigger story—then something about Phil’s story catches Sid’s attention. He narrows his eyes at Phil. “This was in February, you said?”

“Uh-huh.” There’s just the hint of a smile tugging at Phil’s lips.

In February, the top five most newsworthy things Sid had ever done were on the ice. That was probably true for Geno, too. In February, the most anybody cared about any NHL player’s personal life was pretty much just watching Hockey Wives. February… February feels like a hundred years ago.

“You had no fucking clue what you were getting into, did you?” Sid asks, half-amused, half-horrified.

Phil’s smile widens. “Nope,” he says, with good humor. “But I’m thinking I ought to give my agent a raise, eh?”

Sid laughs at that. “Always good to have an agent who actually gets you what you asked for.”

“For sure.”

Out in the yard, Cully’s negotiating with his youngest boy, whose gestures make it clear that he doesn’t see why bedtime should interfere with playing beanbag toss with Geno. Geno, for his part, seems to be shamelessly undermining Cully’s parental authority by taking up the kid’s cause, rather than packing up the beanbags like a real adult would do. Sid knows the look on his face must be pretty goofy, but—he loves that man. He can’t wait to have children with that man. He can already tell that he’ll have to be the no-fun parent, and he doesn’t even care.

“I’m glad to be here,” Phil says quietly. “Not just because of that. I like it here. I like the room. I like playing for a winner.”

“We like having you here,” Sid replies, and he means it. Sid’s been around the league long enough to know that most rumors are bullshit, but the talk about Phil as a bad guy to have in the room had been pervasive enough that Sid had worried, just a little. But Phil’s nothing like his reputation makes him out to be, except for the part about him being kind of a quiet guy, which is true. In some locker rooms, that might be a disadvantage. But here, the guys are more live-and-let-live (probably because Sid and Flower’s combined weirdnesses could fill a book all on their own). Sid’s had cause to be grateful for that a thousand times, and never more so than this year. Phil seems like a pretty live-and-let-live guy himself. He’s always been polite to Sid and Geno: not the distant politeness of homophobes who know better but just can’t bring themselves to get within arm’s reach, but an open, friendly politeness that Sid could see deepening into true friendship over time.

As if his thoughts are running along the same track as Sid’s, Phil says, “If I’m a little weird sometimes, it’s just because I’m a little bit of a weird guy. It’s not you or Geno. Just so you know.” He’s avoiding Sid’s eyes, but Sid now knows Phil well enough to know that that’s not a sign that he’s lying – that’s just Phil Phil-ing his way through an awkward moment.

So he smiles. “Yeah. Thanks.” He wonders whether Phil might like to hear a little bit of what Sid was thinking earlier, and decides to try it. “We’re basically a pack of weirdos here, so I think you’ll fit in pretty well.”

Phil laughs. “Yeah, you might be right.” He clinks his beer bottle against Sid’s. “Thanks for the party – it was fun.”

“My pleasure.”

Out on the lawn, Geno has—properly—lost the argument with Cully about the relative value of bedtime vs. beanbag toss. He doesn’t seem too busted up about it – he’s joking around with Olli and Beau, his big laugh booming through the yard. Estelle is conked out on Flower’s shoulder, and Vero, bless her, is gathering up empties into a bag. In a minute, Sid will take over for her, like a good host should. But for now, Sid looks out over the lawn—over his people, his team—and just breathes in the night air, and feels contentment wash through him. He has a good feeling about this year. A really good feeling.


	7. Worlds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zhenya phone buzzes with a text; it's from Sasha. _Wish you were here_ , it says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the 2015 IIHF World Championships, after the Penguins and the Capitals have both been booted from the NHL playoffs, about a month after the end of They Say Love Heals All Wounds. Makes zero attempt at realism re: the actual IIHF matchups/schedule.

Kades lets Zhenya escape from weight training early, and when Zhenya gets home, he follows his sense of Sid’s location to the media room, where Sid has the TV on. He’s watching hockey – it must be Worlds, Zhenya realizes.

As soon as he steps into the room, though, Sid jumps—probably sensing Zhenya’s presence—and grabs for the remote, hitting the power button and then shooting Zhenya a guilty look as the screen goes black.

“Can watch, Sid,” Zhenya admonishes, walking up to the sofa and bending down to give Sid a hello kiss. “Come on, I’m watch with you.”

He can taste the unripe flavor of Sid’s wariness. “Are you sure…”

“Is Russia game?” Zhenya asks; he sits on the couch, then tips over sideways to rest his head on Sid’s thigh.

“No,” Sid says. “Canada versus Finland.”

“Then yes, I’m sure,” Zhenya says firmly. He’s hurting, he can’t deny that, but he can stand to watch an international tournament game without breaking down. If Russia were playing, that would be different, he’ll admit. But this isn’t more than he can bear. He thinks there’s a decent chance he’ll even enjoy it.

Sid flips the TV back on, and settles a hand on Zhenya’s shoulder, stroking up and down. It’s soothing, and Zhenya doesn’t really give a shit about the game, so when his eyes start to drift shut, he lets them.

He feels his phone buzz in his pocket – a text, then, from someone Zhenya trusts enough that he gave them his new number. He opens his eyes and fishes his phone out to look at the text.

It’s from Sasha.

_Wish you were here_ , it says simply.

Zhenya carefully presses his phone’s screen to his chest and tries to keep his breathing steady. It isn’t easy.

When his bond with Sid was revealed, Gonch leaped to his defense, while the other Russian NHLers either made their disgust plain, or just refused to comment. Sasha had been in the latter group: all through the first round of the playoffs, he’d steadfastly insisted to reporters that his English wasn’t good enough for him to feel comfortable commenting on Zhenya’s relationship with Sid. Finally, one of the Caps fan blogs had given their press credential to one of their Russian-speaking bloggers, and when Sasha broke out the “my English isn’t good enough” answer for the fifth time, she’d asked, in Russian, “ _What about your Russian?_ ”

Zhenya has seen the video of this conversation—it was inescapable for days after it happened.

Sasha had given the blogger a narrow-eyed look, then sighed. In Russian, he replied, wryly, “ _Very good. But no, even my Russian isn’t good enough to talk about Malkin_.”

“ _Will it ever be?_ ” the blogger asked, quietly.

Sasha had stared at something past the camera for a few seconds – even with the crappy video quality, Zhenya could see the conflict on his face. Then, slowly, choosing his words with obvious care, he had said, “ _I can’t talk about politics. I’m just a hockey player, it’s not my business. But I can say, I think, that Evgeni Malkin is a good man. That is just my personal opinion._ ” Sasha chewed on his lip and added, “ _And I can say that he is my friend – that is also just telling you my personal feelings, you know? And of course I want my friends to be happy. Everyone wants that for their friends, yes? Simple things to say – my Russian is good enough for that_.”

After that, he had turned away from the reporters, but the blogger had piped up with one more question: “ _Do you think Malkin should play for Russia?_ ”

Sasha had turned back and given the blogger an exasperated look. “ _You really want to get me in trouble, don’t you?_ ” The week before, the Russian Ice Hockey Federation had issued a statement saying that Zhenya would no longer be permitted to represent Russia in international competition, effective immediately.

“ _It’s just a hockey question_ ,” the blogger replied, but her tone said she knew that was bullshit.

“ _Ha!_ ” Sasha had rolled his eyes. Then he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath in and said, in a flat tone, “ _Of course I cannot talk about roster selection: I am only a player._ ” Having issued the disclaimer, he continued in his normal voice, “ _All I can say is that I have played with him many times on the Russian team – he fights hard for Russia and makes a lot of problems for our opponents, so it’s good to play with him. That is my personal hockey opinion_.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and muttered, “ _Now leave me alone before I dig myself a deeper hole to jump in._ ”

Three hours after the video went online, Gonch had texted Zhenya, _I’m giving Sasha your new number unless you say no_. Another three hours after that, Zhenya had gotten a text from an unknown number saying, _Stop making your life so much more interesting than mine! It’s very annoying being asked to talk about you all the time when I should be talking about myself._

It had been a shitty day in so many ways, but that text had made Zhenya smile.

Now, Sid asks, “Who texted?” bringing Zhenya back to the present.

“Sasha,” Zhenya answers. _Wish you were here_ , he reads again, and he feels a sharp, low tug in his chest. He types, _Me too_ , and hits “send.”

Immediately, his phone buzzes again – another message from Sasha. _I’m glad Crosby’s not_.

Zhenya huffs out a breathy laugh.

“What’s he saying?” Sid asks, peering down at him.

“Say he wish I’m there. But he’s happy you not.”

_Me too_ , Zhenya texts again.

After they’d been knocked out of the playoffs, Sid had gotten the call from Hockey Canada to go to Worlds, just like Sasha had from Russia. Zhenya had searched within himself for the strength to tell Sid to go, that Zhenya would be fine without him for a few weeks. But he didn’t find it, and Sid probably wouldn’t have believed him anyway, and so Sid stayed, and Zhenya is so, so glad. He doesn’t know what he’d do without Sid by his side, close enough to hold him and kiss him and stroke his hair while he cries. Skype is good, it’s great – but for the way Zhenya’s been shaken, he needs all of Sid, not just his face and his voice.

“What did you tell him?” Sid asks, giving off a pale grey wash of worry.

Zhenya abandons any pretense of watching the game and shifts onto his back, looking up at Sid. “I say same,” he replies, softly. “Wish I’m there, but. If I’m here, happy you here with me.”

“Yeah.” Sid’s gaze on Zhenya’s face is tender, his smile crooked. “Same here, for sure.” He curls down to kiss Zhenya on the lips, cupping his cheek in one callused hand. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he murmurs, his nose brushing Zhenya’s nose, his closeness blocking out the world. Here, surrounded by Sid’s love, Zhenya knows for certain he can say the same. _Wish I was there_ : yes, so much that it burns like frostbite. But if he can only be in one place—in his country’s heart, or in Sid’s—then the answer is clear.

“Nowhere else I rather be,” Zhenya breathes, and he means it.


	8. Three Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time they play the Caps, it’s at home, and Sasha is adamant that they meet up afterward – so adamant that he’s lurking outside the Pens locker room, as if he think Zhenya might try to sneak away.
> 
> “I told you I would meet you,” Zhenya says, aggravated, as Sasha drags them into a side hallway.
> 
> “I couldn’t take any chances with this,” Sasha declares, giving Zhenya a look that’s probably supposed to be mysterious, but really just makes him look constipated. He goes on to explain, “I have three things to give you: one from my mother, one from me, and one from a woman I met in a bar in Moscow.”

The first time they play the Caps in 2015, it’s at home, and Sasha is adamant that they meet up afterward – so adamant that he’s lurking outside the Pens locker room, as if he think Zhenya might try to sneak away.

“I _told_ you I would meet you,” Zhenya says, aggravated, as Sasha drags them into a side hallway.

“I couldn’t take any chances with this,” Sasha declares, giving Zhenya a look that’s probably supposed to be mysterious, but really just makes him look constipated. He goes on to explain, “I have three things to give you: one from my mother, one from me, and one from a woman I met in a bar in Moscow.”

Zhenya raises an eyebrow, intrigued, but he knows his manners, so he says first, “What did your mother give you for me?”

Sasha produces an enormous Tupperware from his bag and shoves it at Zhenya, announcing, “My mother’s vareniki – world-famous, made with love, superfood – so you had better appreciate them.”

Zhenya accepts the Tupperware with appropriate gratitude. He knows they won’t be as good as his own mother’s vareniki—because that would be impossible—but he knows better than to say that. To a Russian man, those are fighting words. “Please thank her for me. I know I’ll enjoy them.”

“I suppose you can share them with Crosby,” Sasha says grudgingly, “even though he will not understand the superior quality of what he is eating.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Zhenya replies, trying not to let his lips twitch. “I’m working on improving his palate. Now what did you get for me from a woman in a bar?” he asks. The back of his neck is prickling with curiosity.

He’s not sure what to expect, but he’s definitely _not_ expecting Sasha to pull an envelope out of his pocket. When Zhenya rips it open and unfolds the sheet of paper inside, he feels like the wind has been knocked out of him.

It’s Oksana’s handwriting.

“Ksyusha,” he whispers, stunned.

She’d taken his advice, in the end, and done what she had to do to protect herself: two television interviews and a magazine interview; shock and disgust, betrayal. She would never have guessed, could never have suspected; but now that she knows, of course, it seems obvious. He was effete, cold, un-Russian, “and I don’t like to speak of such indelicate things,” she’d declared, “but he could not satisfy me, you know, like a man should.”

Everyone always expected that part to hurt him most, but instead, it warmed his heart – it was her private message to him, a secret reassurance. Because whatever else had been broken or hurtful between them, when they’d been together, he had _always_ been able to make her happy in bed. Even when the two of them had barely been able to speak to each other, their sex life had still been scorching. And if _that_ part of the interview was a bald-faced lie, then there was no reason to believe the rest of it, either. That didn’t mean none of it hurt—he’d winced when she said she was glad, now, that they hadn’t had any children—but it wasn’t too much to bear. He understood, and he was happy to know that he hadn’t ruined her chance to build a life for herself in Russia, like she’d always wanted.

But he hadn’t heard from her. No text messages, no calls, no emails… and _that_ made him worried, both for her safety, and worried that there might be some real anger on her part at how his choices had put her in danger.

He holds the letter carefully, delicately, like the precious thing it is, and starts to read.

 

_I’m so sorry, Zhenya, that all you’re hearing from me right now is vile shit, but I can’t call, can’t email, and if I write to you the normal way, they’ll read that, too. Ilya found microphones in our apartment, so he says our phones and computers are probably monitored as well. I believe it. I have a plan to get this to you, but it won’t be the kind of thing I can do regularly, and I don’t even know if it will work. So this is probably the last you’ll hear from me, the real me, for years. As for the rest of it, I know you know me well enough to know I don’t mean a word of it. _

_I love you so much and I wish I could be there for you right now, but I have to take care of myself and my family. I know you understand. When this all dies down, I will see you again, I promise you, but for now this is all I can risk. I am so proud of you. You are good and worthy and strong. You are all the best things about Russia, and none of the worst. Be happy and don’t you dare forget me._

_-Your Ksyusha_

_PS: if Crosby breaks your heart then when I come to America I will crush him like a bug – tell him so. Use exactly those words! Make sure he knows I can do it._

 

When Zhenya finishes the letter, when he’s laughing and crying all at the same time, and his eyes are so blurred with tears that he can barely see—that’s when Sasha wraps his arms around Zhenya, warm and strong, and murmurs, “ _This_ is the thing I brought for you from me.” And that’s when Zhenya starts _really_ crying.

He’s not starving to be held, by any means—he has Sid, who is generous with his affection, sweet and giving always. But he didn’t realize how much he was missing this kind of friendly touch until now, and before he knows it, he’s shaking in Sasha’s arms, making ugly sobbing sounds. The guys hug him, but only in full gear, and anyway, they have to; Gonch would if Zhenya asked, but he’s not a touchy person by nature.

It’s not just the touch, itself, though, because this is a speaking touch. Even if Zhenya couldn’t read these things on Sasha—and skin-to-skin like this, he can—it would say, _I’m not afraid of you. I don’t think you’re contagious. I don’t think you’re contaminated. I am still your friend._ Some of the other Russian players won’t even check Zhenya, anymore – too disgusted or afraid to get that close to him. And here’s Sasha, holding Zhenya so close that he can feel the expansion and contraction of Sasha’s chest when he breathes; holding Zhenya in a _public hallway_ , where any team staff or players from either the Caps or the Pens might see them—where a reporter might even see them. Sasha’s support has been a lifeline to Zhenya through these terrible months, but that support has come from a distance, made of words. It meant the world to Zhenya, but this means so, so much more.

“Sasha,” Zhenya gasps, clogged with tears, when he’s managed to get a hold of himself, at least a little. “You didn’t have to—”

“Hush,” Sasha says comfortably. “Wipe your nose, and I will tell you how I got the letter, yes?”

“Yes, please,” Zhenya agrees – the hem of his sleeve is sacrificed to his snot, which is gross, but fortunately he makes enough money to buy more shirts.

“Good.” Sasha loosens his grip, but doesn’t let go of Zhenya. He begins, “I was dancing in a club when this tiny girl starts grinding with me – a little aggressive, but who am I to complain? After a minute, she leans back and tells me she wants to give me something – now, I was seeing somebody, so I started to say that—and then she pinched my arm! Very hard,” he tells Zhenya, with an injured look. Zhenya would mock him, but he knows very well how hard Oksana pinches, so he winces in sympathy.

Sasha continues, “She said, ‘Not my pussy, you idiot,’ and slipped me the letter. She said it was for ‘Zhenya,’ and I was about to ask which Zhenya, but then the light caught her face in the right way, and I recognized her.”

He raises an eyebrow at Zhenya and explains, “Now, I had seen one of her interviews, and I was not going to give you anything that came from someone who would say those things, but she must have read it on me, and she said, ‘You can open it and read it to be sure it’s safe, but I would never hurt him. Things aren’t always what they seem.’ And then she danced away, and she was gone! It was all done very smoothly, Zhenya – I’m a little afraid of this woman,” he says reflectively, sounding impressed. “I have no idea how you kept her interest for so long. Anyway, I read the letter, and then I brought it to you.”

Zhenya grouses, “I didn’t need all the details of how you groped my ex-girlfriend,” but it’s bullshit – he misses her terribly, and he cherishes every detail of Sasha’s story. He can’t help but think, with helpless affection, that what Sasha just described is probably the most _Oksana_ thing he’s ever heard. And according to Oksana herself, it’s the last thing he’ll have of her for years to come.

At that thought, Zhenya’s eyes go hot again, and he has to duck his head; Sasha tucks him in close again and makes calm shushing noises until Zhenya can pull himself together.

“You have to leave, I know,” Zhenya starts, unwillingly – he doesn’t want to see Sasha go, not yet.

Sasha shakes his head. “The team is going home tonight, yes. But I got permission to take a different flight – I’m heading back in the morning. So I’m gracing you with my presence all night, tonight, Zhenya – you should be honored.”

Zhenya’s gratitude and affection are not enough to keep him from giving Sasha the dirty look that he deserves. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he says, “because I like you and I want to keep liking you. Come home with me and Sid, and we can eat these vareniki, and just…” He shrugs. “Be friends.”

“You will make me speak English,” Sasha gripes, but he drops his shields to let Zhenya know that he doesn’t mean it.

As they head toward player parking, Zhenya offers, “I’m teaching Sid Russian, so… it doesn’t have to be all English, if you don’t want.”

Sasha shoots Zhenya a sardonic look. “How bad is his accent?”

Zhenya winces. “So bad,” he admits.

“You think it’s cute, don’t you?”

Zhenya’s silence is his confession.

“Now that’s love,” Sasha says, laughing.

Zhenya stops in his tracks, hearing Sasha’s words again in his head: _Now that’s love._ _Love_.

That’s the part, of course, that so many of Zhenya’s countrymen can’t seem to understand: that what he feels for Sid is love, as true and real as the love they feel for their own husbands or wives. Not just a sexual perversion or a political stance, but the kind of lasting, passionate, selfless love that comes from the lover’s deepest self, and can’t be ripped out without irreparably disfiguring them. For his countrymen to admit that what Zhenya feels for Sid is really love, they would have to admit that he is like them in some way—that he feels the same things they feel—and that sameness is something that most of them cannot bear. But Sasha says it effortlessly – like it’s obvious. _That’s love_. Sasha isn’t afraid to be like Zhenya, to recognize in Zhenya some part of himself. And that, too… that’s love.

Zhenya’s breathing is ragged again, and he can feel a few tears spilling from the corners of his eyes. “Sasha…” he says helplessly. “I don’t know how to—thank you, Sasha, I—” It would go against the teasing kind of relationship they have for Zhenya to say _I love you, too_ , but it’s what he means.

“Shush, no,” Sasha says, throwing an arm around Zhenya’s shoulders and keeping his tone light as they walk down the hallway. “If you are red-eyed and sniffling when we meet up with your Crosby, he will think I have made you cry, Zhenya… and he is small, but he is fierce!” Shooting Zhenya a dry look, he says, “It just occurred to me that you have a type.”

That surprises a laugh out of Zhenya – he’s pretty sure neither Sid nor Oksana would appreciate the comparison. “No more crying,” he promises obligingly, wiping his face clean again. “I wouldn’t want you to have to be scared of Sid,” he adds, keeping a straight face as best he can.

“I am not _scared_ of Crosby,” Alex huffs. “As if I could be scared of him, I could pat him on the head—”

As they walk out into the player parking lot, amiably bickering, Zhenya stops for a second to look Sasha in the face. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Thank you. For all three. And for—for everything.”

Sasha smiles, just a little. “You are not an easy friend to have,” he says, equally quietly. “But you are worth it, Zhenya. Now!” He claps his hands together. “Crosby, and then vareniki, and then, I think, vodka.”

“Yes,” Zhenya replies, smiling as the night unfolds in front of them. “That sounds like a very good plan.”


	9. The Penguin Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas ritual in the Crosby-Malkin household.

The “penguin family” Christmas tree ornaments were a gift from Gretchen for the girls’ first Christmas: two little frosted-glass penguin chicks, which Gretchen had presciently labeled “A” and “K” on the bottom to avoid future bickering over which one was which, and two frosted-glass adult penguins. The adults didn’t need initials to tell them apart – Gretchen had bought one taller, skinnier one, and one that was shorter and more… bottom-heavy.

(“You think you’re so funny,” Sid had muttered as he pulled the ornaments out of the box for the first time.

Gretchen just grinned. “There’s no shame in being bootylicious, Sid.”

Geno, of course, had loved that.)

At six months old, of course, the girls hadn’t been able to understand what the ornaments were meant to represent, but by their second Christmas, they’d become enchanted by the little penguin family, and imbued it with a solemn symbolic significance. If the penguin family was all right, _their_ family would be all right, or so the girls instinctively seemed to believe. Every year, they prodded Sid and Geno anxiously from the minute they started seeing Christmas displays go up in stores: _We’re gonna have a tree, right? And the penguin family will be on it, right? Don’t forget, Daddy, it’s important!_

And every year, Sid and Geno would reassure them: _Of course we’ll have a tree, and of course the penguin family will be there. They’ll always be there, okay? We promise._

Every year, too, the girls have begged to be allowed put their own penguins on the tree, but until this year, Sid and Geno had said a firm no. The ornaments are fragile, and if one of them had gotten broken, there’d have been days—maybe weeks—of crying afterward. Instead, Sid and Geno carefully hung the ornaments, under the girls’ close supervision, high enough on the tree that they could be sure the girls and their friends wouldn’t bump into them. But now that the girls are four and have better motor control, Sid’s ready to take the risk.

Anya goes first, approaching the wooden box holding the penguin family with wide, reverent eyes. She handles the little penguin chick labeled “A” as gently as she would handle a real baby bird, and solemnly hangs it from a sturdy branch, sighing with contentment when she steps away and sees it hanging there in the spot she picked. Katya goes next – if anything, she’s even more ostentatiously careful than Anya with her own little “K” penguin, moving at a turtle’s pace as she shuffles over to the tree with the ornament cupped in her hands. She hangs it nervously on the branch right next to Anya’s penguin, holding her breath the whole time and only daring to inhale when she takes her hands away and the penguin stays securely on the branch.

“Your turn, Papa,” she whispers, solemn, turning her big eyes on Geno.

Geno clucks his tongue, smiling. “No, Katyusha, Papa Penguin always goes out last. Papa and Daddy decide this a long time ago.”

He winks at Sid.

“I don’t think that agreement applies to Christmas ornaments,” Sid mutters good-naturedly, but he takes his own penguin ornament from the box and hangs it up next to Katya’s. “ _Now_ it’s your turn,” he tells Geno.

“Yes, now is Papa’s turn,” Geno agrees. He hangs his penguin ornament next to Anya’s, making a neat little row—Geno, Anya, Katya, and Sid—and then nods once, satisfied.

But Katya frowns and says, “No, Papa, that’s not where the Papa penguin goes.”

Geno blinks in surprise, looking down at Katya. “What’s wrong, Katyusha?”

Katya informs him, matter-of-factly, “The Papa penguin has to be next to the Daddy penguin, so they can kiss.”

Sid’s chest suddenly aches, and when he meets Geno’s gaze, he sees everything that he’s feeling reflected back at him: surprise, and joy, and above all, the kind of helpless, overpowering love that Sid had never felt until the moment the girls were placed in his arms in the delivery room. The girls are four now – they go to daycare, with other children, and Sid knew when he and Geno made that decision that the girls were probably going to start absorbing the idea that there was such a thing as a “normal” family, and that a normal family meant a mother and a father, not a Daddy and a Papa. It was nobody’s fault, and they’d been careful to pick a daycare where nobody would try to teach the girls that kind of thing _on purpose_ , but if you go swimming, you can’t help getting wet – the water is all around you. He and Geno have been bracing themselves for months, waiting for the girls to ask why their family is different—waiting for the girls to ask if something is wrong with their family, if something is missing.

Maybe someday that day will come. And if it does, Sid will be ready to answer those questions, and he thinks he’s prepared himself well enough that it will barely even hurt.

But tonight, here in their home, in front of their Christmas tree, it’s perfectly obvious to his Katyusha that her Daddy and Papa aren’t in their right places unless they’re close enough to kiss, and Anya is nodding, too, firm in her conviction. To them, that’s just how a Daddy and a Papa should be. That’s how they should love each other. And of course, they’re right.

Hoarsely, Geno says, “You right, Katyushenka. You right. I fix, okay?” He moves the Geno penguin over next to the Sid penguin, then looks down at the girls. “Better?” he asks, with a wobbly smile, his eyes looking suspiciously wet, although Sid’s sure he knows that crying in front of the girls would only upset them.

“Yeah,” Katya says, visibly contented now. “Now it’s perfect.”

“Yes,” Geno agrees, and then kneels down to wrap her up in a fierce hug. “Such smart girl,” he mutters into her forehead, pressing a kiss there. Anya gloms on to the hug, too, and Sid joins them – his whole world encircled by just his two arms. Katya’s right again: it’s perfect.

Later that night, after they’ve put the girls to bed, Sid stops halfway down the living room stairs at the sight of Geno lying on the floor on his back, arms akimbo, head and shoulders underneath the Christmas tree.

“What are you doing?” Sid asks, amused, continuing down the steps.

“I see people do on TV – it’s nice, Sid. Come join me.” He pats the carpet next to him.

Sid doesn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t, so he lies down on the floor, too, shoulder to shoulder, looking up through the layers of branches and lights, green and brown and glowing gold and the occasional flash of color from the ornaments. Geno’s right – it _is_ nice. Peaceful.

Geno nudges him and then points up through the branches. “You can see penguin family from here. See?”

Sid squints, following the line of Geno’s finger, and gives a breathy laugh when he catches sight of the “A” and “K,” and the outline of the adult penguins. “Yeah, you can. That’s pretty cool.”

“Close enough for kiss,” Geno says, soft, turning his head to look at Sid. “Like us.” The fondness on his face glows brighter than the lights above them.

“Yeah.” Sid smiles back at him, feeling his joy from earlier in the night flood through him all over again. “Lucky them, eh?”

“Lucky us,” Geno corrects firmly, rolling onto his side and wrapping his arm around Sid, sure and strong.

Sid bites his lip and then smiles again, wider. “Yeah,” he murmurs, pressing himself into Geno’s embrace, “Lucky us. Lucky, lucky us.” When they kiss, it’s warm and comforting – like Katya said, it’s just right.

“I love you, G,” Sid whispers against Geno’s mouth. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Sid,” Geno whispers back, his lips turning up against Sid’s. “Love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, and to all a good night and a happy New Year! Thank you for coming along with me on this journey, and for bringing me so much joy this past year by reading and by leaving such lovely comments - I hope you'll stay with me as I keep writing about these two and their world, which I plan to do for a good while to come. See you in 2017!


	10. What's in a Name?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the topic of "Geno" vs. "Zhenya."

“Hey, uh, Geno?” Sid asks. He’s laying out his clothes for tomorrow on the unused bed in their hotel room, and Geno is already under the covers with his Kindle out. “Should I call you Zhenya?” On paper, it doesn’t look hard to pronounce, but Sid flushes hearing how different it sounds in his mouth compared to Gonch’s or Ovechkin’s.

Geno gives him a bemused look. “No,” he says simply. “You call me Geno. Is good.”

Sid chews on his lower lip for a second, then says, “Ovechkin calls you ‘Zhenya.’” He’d also beaten them tonight. Sid may be a little miffed about it.

Geno smiles, and agrees, “Yes. Because first, Sasha can pronounce.” Sid makes a face, and Geno laughs, not meanly. “And second, Sasha call me Zhenya for many years, so is normal. He call me Geno, I think he hit his head, you know?”

“Sure.” Sid finishes setting out his clothes and sits on the edge of the bed next to Geno's knees. What Geno's saying makes sense, but... it's important for people to call you by the right name. Sid doesn't want to be calling Geno something that makes Geno think _That's not me_. “I could learn to pronounce it right,” he offers. He’s pretty sure, anyway. Gonch could help him. 

“You could,” Geno agrees, which is something. “But still is that, for ten years you call me Geno, you know? When we win Cup, you call me Geno. When I’m little baby NHL player with big crush on you—” He winks, and Sid can feel himself blush. “—you call me Geno. When I jerk off for _ten years_ think about you say my name when I touch you, in my head, you say, ‘ _Oh, Geno_ ,’” he moans theatrically. Sid turns even redder, which makes Geno beam and lean in to kiss him on the cheek.

“So you… you really like it,” Sid checks, wanting to be absolutely sure.

Geno nods, and leans in for a softer kiss. He promises, “Yes, I like. Sid have so many ways to say my name – whole language of ‘Geno,’ you know? Happy, mad, sexy, excite—If you stop call me Geno, I miss, you know?” he finishes, softly.

Sid’s heart thumps in his chest, unsteady with affection. “Geno,” he begins, helplessly, not knowing what he can say.

“Yes,” says Geno, with a smile that crinkles up his eyes. “Like that.”


	11. Pyeongchang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sid gets a call from Hockey Canada. Takes place about two years after the end of They Say Love Heals All Wounds.

Over the dinner table, Sid says abruptly, “I got a call from Hockey Canada today. They’ve scheduled Olympic training camp for Pyeongchang.”

Zhenya swallows down his jealousy. “They invite old men like Sidney Crosby?” he jokes, weakly.

Sid doesn’t smile. “I’m going to decline.”

Zhenya thought he knew what the word “decline” meant, but apparently his English is failing him. “Decline?”

“I’m going to say no. I’m not going to play.”

When Zhenya gives him an astonished look, Sid sets his jaw. “It’s not fair,” he says. “It’s not fair that you won’t be playing and I will. So I’m going to say no. They don’t need me anyway.”

Zhenya is speechless. As he stares at Sid in shock, Sid returns to shoveling pasta into his mouth, single-minded. Finally, Zhenya finds his words again.

“Stupid, Sid,” he says bluntly.

Sid pauses, and Zhenya can read a flash of hurt from him. “Wow, nice, G.”

Zhenya makes a noise of frustration. “I know you mean nice, Sid. But you think little, think just about you and me, what is fair with us. Think big, Sid,” he urges, leaning forward over the table. “Think about how happy you make Russian hockey federation – not have to play against best Canadian player. They _win_ , Sid, if you do this. I don’t mean they win medal – that is more easy without you for sure, but I mean they win _big_ fight. Important fight.”

Zhenya stops to take a breath – he can tell Sid’s listening, but he can also read that Sid isn’t persuaded yet. He continues, trying to keep his voice steady, “You do this, they get kick out of Olympics _all_ gay hockey players. They make you do what they want,” he says, low, and if he’s being honest, that’s the part that makes him angriest – that Sid would be in their power. “They tell Russians, ‘See, gay player is weak, we can push him around. He can’t play without his lover. We make even next Gretzky, Golden Goal Canadian star, do what we want.’”

Zhenya has more to say, but he can’t keep going – his eyes are burning and his throat is raw. He drains his water glass, but it doesn’t help. He can’t even look at Sid.

He hears Sid take a breath, and then Sid says, fiercely, “I don’t give a shit about the Russian hockey federation. I don’t give a shit what they say about me. I care about _you_. And if me playing in the Olympics when you can’t would hurt you or make you sad, then Russia can declare a fucking national holiday in celebration for all I care, but I’m not going to play.”

More calmly, he adds, “I won’t know if you lie to me. So please don’t. Please tell me the truth. Do you want me to play?”

“Of course I want you play,” Zhenya says, like it’s easy, and to his surprise, it is. The thought of Sid playing when he can’t does hurt a little – but not as much as the thought of Sasha playing when he can’t, or of some pissant from the KHL taking his place. It hurts to feel left out, but Zhenya will feel that way whether Sid plays or not. “I come with you,” he adds. “Cheer for you, like good boyfriend.”

Sid blushes, and Zhenya can read mingled pleasure and embarrassment coming through the bond. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Want to,” Zhenya says softly. That’s the choice he’s made – to be on Sid’s team above all others. He likes the idea of showing his loyalty in that way, too: in the stands, for the cameras. He won’t wear Sid’s Team Canada jersey, because he refuses to vindicate the voices that have called him a traitor, accused him of choosing Canada over Russia. This has fuck-all to do with Canada. But he’ll wear Sid’s Penguins jersey, and cheer Sid’s name louder than anybody else in the stands.

Sid pauses, then, giving off a molasses-scent of hesitation.

“Sid?” Zhenya prompts.

“When they called,” Sid says, low, avoiding Zhenya’s eyes now, “they asked if I thought you’d be interested in playing for Canada, since you’re a citizen now.”

“ _No_ ,” Zhenya says immediately, stomach rolling. “No _._ ” Wearing Canada’s sweater as a fan would be bad enough – he can’t imagine skating in it. Russia can reject him, exile him, humiliate him, and abandon him. But that rejection hasn’t changed him. He won’t let it. His heart is still a Russian heart – he still belongs to Russia, even though he belongs to Sid, too, and that will always be true. He doesn’t have it in him to turn his back on either of them.

“Yeah,” Sid says, cutting into Zhenya’s thoughts, “that’s what I told them.” He gives Zhenya a lopsided, worried smile. “But I think we do better when I let you make your own decisions instead of me making them for you, yeah? So I wanted to tell you, give you the chance to decide.” He bites his lip, then tells Zhenya more softly, “I’m sorry if you’d rather I hadn’t said anyth—”

“No, better you tell me, let me decide,” Zhenya says firmly, because Sid’s absolutely right about that. That’s the only way their relationship works. “Thank you, Sid. For tell me, and for tell Canada no so I don’t have to.”

The anxiety flowing through the bond recedes, and Sid’s smile gets stronger. “You’re welcome.”

Zhenya realizes something and adds, narrowing his eyes at Sid, “And next time, also remember this before you decide for me that I don’t want _you_ to play, yes?”

Sid winces. “Yeah. That’s… yeah. At least I told you about it before I did anything stupid?” he offers.

“Yes,” Zhenya agrees, pursing his lips in disapproval. “Sidney Crosby is not play for Canada, is most stupid.”

“No,” Sid replies quietly, holding Zhenya’s gaze, “Evgeni Malkin doesn’t play for Russia – that’s the most stupid.” There’s a grey streak of pain and anger under the words that goes down so deep Zhenya can’t see its end, but Sid’s voice and gaze are steady.

Zhenya doesn’t have the words for his own pain. It’s been two years, and he still hasn’t really been able to talk about Russia’s rejection – not with Sid, not with his parents, not even with Gonch or Sasha. He’s not sure there _are_ words for this kind of loss: the loss of a future, and a place, and a language, and a home, and an identity, and so, so many beloved friends. Without those words, all he can do is reach out his hand; Sid takes it. That’s enough. He has been hurt, but he has this. Sid is with him. And he has no regrets.


	12. Respectful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sid's created a monster, in the best possible way.

Sid can admit that, the first few times, he wasn't that good at fucking Geno - like, that whole Sid's-dick-plus-Geno's-prostate thing took some figuring out. But he works at it, and he _gets_ good at it, and once he does, Geno gets kind of…

Look, Sid doesn’t want to say “slutty” – that’s disrespectful. Geno gets… enthusiastic. Like, even more enthusiastic than usual. About sex. Specifically, about sex involving Sid’s dick in Geno’s ass, in as many positions and locations and times of day as possible.

Sid is _not_ complaining about this, by the way. Not even a little. As far as Sid is concerned, it’s pretty much the best. Sid _likes_ coming home to find Geno sprawled up the living-room stairs on his belly, giving Sid a come-hither look over his shoulder.

“You make me wait _so long_ ,” Geno informs him, shoving his own sweatpants down, exposing his bare ass shamelessly.

Sid was gone _maybe_ 45 minutes, if that.

Geno adds, “Make me wait so long, I start without you.” He reaches back with one hand and spreads his cheeks to show— _oh God_ —lube glistening around his hole. “So I’m ready _now_ , Sid,” he finishes, giving Sid an expectant look.

Sid is pretty much just struggling to stay upright after all the blood suddenly rushed out of his head, but it seems impossible to be three whole steps away from Geno when Geno is spread out just for him, half-naked and hungry and—okay, fine, he gives up—slutty. Like, classy slutty. Beautiful slutty. Respectful slutty.

_Oh my god, shut the fuck up and get over here_ , says a voice in Sid’s head that sounds, unsurprisingly, a lot like Geno.

“Yeah, okay, _yes_ , I—” Sid is fumbling with his fly, stumbling over to the stairs, blanketing Geno with his body—and Sid didn’t even know he _had_ a kink for being fully dressed when Geno was naked, but wow, yeah, that’s apparently a thing, and it’s _awesome_.

“Do you have lube?” he gasps out, barely coherent.

“Yes, have,” Geno says, shoving a bottle back toward Sid, “but _hurry_ , Sid, want you _now—_ ”

“Oh, fuck, yeah…” Sid takes the necessary seconds to make sure his dick is wet and Geno’s relaxed, and that’s all the brain he has – once he’s balls-deep inside of Geno, breathing Geno’s scent and tugging on Geno’s dick, he doesn’t have room in his head for anything but that feeling.

Afterward, Sid lies, winded, on the steps, staring up at the ceiling. “I think the ice cream probably melted,” he croaks. “Also, I dropped the bags, so… the eggs might be broken.”

He can feel Geno shrug next to him. “Buy more eggs,” Geno says, philosophically. Then his eyes light up. “When you come back, we can do _again_!”

“Oh god,” Sid says faintly.


	13. Alyosha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Zhenya’s not sure what to expect from this meeting – not sure, really, who he’ll even be meeting. People change – god knows Zhenya has changed in the last twelve years. But then the café door opens and a slender, blond man walks in, and Zhenya’s breath catches in his throat. “Alyosha!” he calls, and the man turns._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for semi-explicit discussion of a consensual sexual relationship between two teenagers of the same age.
> 
> Also, all the dialogue here is spoken in Russian, in case that's not clear.

Zhenya sips his coffee nervously, scanning the faces of the people walking into the café. They look like the standard New York City clientele, albeit a little younger and with fewer people in suits, since this is clearly a café catering to the university crowd. He’s not sure what to expect from this meeting – not sure, really, who he’ll even be meeting. People change – god knows Zhenya has changed in the last twelve years.

But then the café door opens and a slender, blond man walks in, and Zhenya’s breath catches in his throat. “Alyosha!” he calls, and the man turns. When he sees Zhenya, he smiles.

“Hello, Zhenya,” he says as he sits down at Zhenya’s table. “It’s been a very long time.”

“Very long,” Zhenya agrees. He’s seen pictures, of course – the investigator that he hired to find Alyosha was very thorough. But it’s different to finally see him in person. Alyosha’s face hasn’t quite delivered on the promise of his teenage prettiness—his ears stick out a little more than they used to, and his skin isn’t as clear—but he’s still a good-looking man, and his smile is just as beautiful as Zhenya remembers.

Zhenya asks, “Don’t you want to order something?”

Alyosha shakes his head, still smiling. “I’m a regular here. They know my order.” He leans back in his chair a little and studies Zhenya. “I was very surprised to hear from you, you know. What made you look me up?”

Zhenya shrugs tightly. “Lots of things. I was worried, most of all. I wanted to know you were all right. I thought I knew how bad it was back home, before, but. I didn’t.” He can hear his voice go hoarse at the end.

Alyosha’s eyes are warmer by the time Zhenya’s done. “That’s sweet,” he says gently. “But I’m well. I don’t know how much your investigator told you about me…”

“Boring things,” Zhenya says, quickly. “I’d rather hear it from you anyway.”

“Well.” Alyosha settles back further in his chair and thinks for a moment. Then he lets out a huff of laughter, and says, with a quirk of a smile, “The defining characteristic of my life, funnily enough, is being shown up, repeatedly, by Evgeni Malkin.”

Zhenya blinks. “What do you mean?” He can’t think of any time he’s shown Alyosha up, anything he’s bested Alyosha at.

Alyosha’s smile widens into a rueful grin, and he explains, “When I was nineteen, I surprised my parents with the news that I’d gotten accepted to a fancy American university, and that I would be transferring that fall. No one from Magnitogorsk goes to America for school—no one!—and I was the talk of the neighborhood for a whole week. And then, a week later, _you_ go missing from training camp in Finland, and nobody cares about Alexei Makarov and his fancy American university any more. So thank you for that, Zhenya,” he adds, mock-glaring.

Zhenya laughs. “So my timing is terrible.” He had wondered what had brought Alyosha to America, and now that he knows the answer, he’s impressed. Zhenya’s parents are proud of him, of course, proud of his hockey… but he knows they wish he had made more of a go at formal education. His mother, in particular, has spent years finding excuses to mention Sasha’s graduate degree to Zhenya in a significant tone of voice.

“You have no idea,” Alyosha responds, dryly. A barista brings Alyosha a mug of something foamy, and Alyosha responds with thanks and a few bills. “And then this past year…” He looks at Zhenya fondly. “I finally told my family that I am gay, and that I was getting married to my husband, Joaquin.” He says his husband’s name with relish, sensually, even after a year of marriage.

Zhenya blurts out, “You like saying his name.”

Alyosha’s smile turns small and private. “Yes. Yes, I do.” He sighs, and continues, “I was going to be the scandal of the neighborhood—married to a _man_ , and a _black_ man at that!—and then, two days later, everyone found out that Magnitogorsk’s favorite son was bonded to Sidney Crosby, and any opportunity for lasting infamy on my part was gone. Always you have to one-up me, Zhenya,” he scolds, eyes twinkling.

“I would rather not have,” Zhenya says, past the lump in his throat. Time heals enough that he can see some humor in Alyosha’s story, but it’s faint.

“No,” Alyosha agrees, gently. “I know that.”

“Have you been back?” Zhenya asks. He hasn’t, himself, but it’s different for Zhenya, who was a celebrity, making him an easily recognizable target.

“No. Not for five years, not since I started dating Joaquin.” Alyosha meets Zhenya’s gaze. “I don’t miss it,” he admits.

That hurts. Even though it has nothing to do with Zhenya, doesn’t touch his life at all, it hurts to think that someone else could be bereft of all the same things Zhenya has lost, and not miss them at all – that the things Zhenya holds as dear as his own heart could be so easily discarded by someone who could have kept them if he tried.

Alyosha must read Zhenya’s distress – his eyes go soft, and his voice is gentle when he says, “We’re different, Zhenya. I never wanted to go back – the whole reason I came to America was to get away, and I was never close with my family. I never wanted a Russian life.”

“I did,” Zhenya chokes out, his eyes burning. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to set this grief down instead of carrying it on his back everywhere he goes – grief for the home and the life he’s lost, even knowing how much he’s gained.

“Oh, Zhenya.” Alyosha slides his chair around the table and puts his arm around Zhenya. “I know. I know.” As Zhenya tries to get himself under control, Alyosha says in a low voice, “When I was in school, here, sometimes I would see a hockey game on TV, or part of one, and I’d see the ‘Malkin’ on the back of your sweater, and I’d be proud, you know? I’d think, ‘That’s my friend Zhenya.’”

“Alyosha…” Zhenya breathes, taken aback. Alyosha was _proud_ to see Zhenya succeed, after how Zhenya had treated him? Alyosha had still considered them _friends_?

Whatever Alyosha reads from Zhenya, he doesn’t react to it – he just keeps speaking, as if he’s trying to get the words out before he loses the courage to say them. “Then, last year, when the cameras were in your face, and they were asking you those horrible questions, and you never, never backed down, never let them say there was something wrong with you or the way you loved him—” Alyosha’s voice is quiet but rough with emotion. “—I thought it again, ‘That’s my friend Zhenya.’ And however proud I was before, it was _nothing_ compared to how proud of you I was then.”

“How can you be proud of me?” Zhenya asks hoarsely, staring down at the table. “After the way I treated you – you should hate me—”

“Hate you?” Zhenya can read Alyosha’s honest shock. “For what, Zhenya? And what do you mean, ‘the way you treated me’?”

“When we were boys,” Zhenya fumbles, trying to keep his voice down, even though the odds of any Russian speaker overhearing them are slim. “I let you touch me and get me off, but I never kissed you, never… never treated you nicely or brought you to meet my parents or—”

Alyosha’s eyebrows shoot up. “To meet your _parents_?” he repeats, sounding incredulous. “Zhenya, what—are you apologizing for not being my _boyfriend_?”

“Yes,” Zhenya says, heart heavy with shame. “You deserved that – someone who would hold your hand and treat you like an equal and be open about you—”

“Oh, _Zhenya_ ,” Alyosha sighs, patting Zhenya on the back. He lowers his shields, and all Zhenya can read behind them is fond exasperation and the faintest hint of regret. “You could be a silly boy sometimes, and it seems you have grown into a silly man. Did I ask you to introduce me to your parents or squire me around Magnitogorsk?” He rolls his eyes. “No! And I wouldn’t have let you if you’d tried it. For god’s sake, Zhenya, I didn’t come out to my own parents until last year.”

Zhenya’s not willing to let himself off the hook that easily, though. “Still, I… I thought I was better than you, back then,” he says, tasting bitterness. “And I don’t think I bothered hiding it. And that was wrong.” He takes a breath and forces himself to meet Alyosha’s eyes. “If I didn’t hurt you, that’s because I was lucky, or because you were so strong. It’s not because I was careful with you. I wasn’t,” Zhenya finishes, down almost to a whisper. “Not like I should have been.”

Alyosha is silent for a minute, giving Zhenya a considering look. Eventually, he says, “There’s something to what you say. And if it means that you know better now—and I see that it does—then that’s all to the good.”

Zhenya nods. He looks down at his coffee cup – half of it is still left, but it’s probably cold by now.

“You weren’t the first, you know,” says Alyosha, in an odd, distant voice – a voice that reminds Zhenya of the hard-eyed faces of their hometown. When Zhenya looks up, Alyosha’s eyes are on him, merciless. “But you were the only one who stayed my friend – the only one who was willing to be seen in public with the faggot who was sucking his cock,” Alyosha says bluntly, holding Zhenya’s gaze. “You were the only one who cared if I got off, and the only one who ever touched me back. And if you want to feel bad that you never kissed me, I can’t stop you. But I can tell you that you’re the only one who ever wanted to. And I always knew you wanted to,” he adds, eyes filled, now, with warm amusement. The lines of his face have softened, suddenly, and he looks younger, more American.

“I wasn’t subtle, you’re saying.” That’s terrifying, in retrospect, but Zhenya can’t say he’s surprised – he’s learned, by now, that he tends not to love quietly.

Alyosha agrees, smiling, “Oh god, no. Not subtle at all. And if you’re looking for forgiveness, you have it. You had it a long time ago,” he adds softly.

Zhenya looks down, clasping his hands around his coffee cup. “Thank you,” he whispers.

They talk, then, about other things – about Alyosha’s job, about Zhenya’s family, about Alyosha’s wedding. It feels comfortable.

Eventually, Zhenya has to go. “We have a game tonight…” he explains.

Alyosha raises an eyebrow. “I know. I have tickets.”

“Oh.” Zhenya tries not to look too obviously pleased.

Alyosha rolls his eyes. “And yes, Joaquin and I will be in our Malkin jerseys. So don’t make us look bad!”

“I’ll score for you,” Zhenya promises.

“Keep in touch,” Alyosha asks, seriously. “Won’t you?”

Zhenya nods, replying, “I’d like that.”

After the game, he gets a text from Alyosha’s number: _March 23 you play the Islanders. Lunch? Say yes. Bring your Sidney._

_Yes_ , Zhenya replies, smiling.


	14. The Photo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years later, it’ll be number one on Sports Illustrated’s list of “Most Iconic Sports Photographs of the Decade.” But it almost doesn’t happen.
> 
> Set at the very end of the 2015-16 season, which is the first season after the end of They Say Love Heals All Wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend reading "A Really Private Person" before you read this, just fyi.

Years later, it’ll be number one on Sports Illustrated’s list of “Most Iconic Sports Photographs of the Decade.” But it almost doesn’t happen.

When Sid finally lifts the Cup, he’s ablaze with joy, burning up with it, brilliant and intoxicating. There’s no room in his head for anything else. Eventually, though, the captain part of his brain takes over, and he knows his responsibilities. When he skates over to the guys, he calls, “Dales!”

It was bad luck to plan, of course – you could jinx yourself that way. But hearing Dales talk about his mom wanting to see him lift the Cup, Sid just knew. It was right.

But when Sid skates toward Dales, calls his name, Dales laughs and says, “Don’t be dumb, Sid.”

There’s some pushing and shoving in the mob of Penguins, and suddenly Geno is right in front of him. Sid can hardly look right at him – the happiness on Geno’s face is so bright, like the sun. They won this one _together_ , Sid thinks, helplessly, and it means so much more that way… okay, they won the last one together, too, but this one they won _together_ -together—

Dales is right next to him now, and he gives Sid a shove toward Geno. “Come on, man,” he says gently. “My mom’ll be really happy to see me get it third.”

Sid knows what’s right. And giving Dales the Cup would have been right. But this is right, too. He’s sure of it, now that the moment is in front of him.

So he lifts the Cup up high over his head and offers it to Geno, who’s beaming down at him. Sid drops his shields and thinks, as loud as he can, _Let me give you this, too. Let’s share this, too, and remember it forever._ And when Geno leans down to take the Cup from him, Sid stretches up to kiss him on the lips. It’s the first time he’s ever kissed Geno in front of a camera.

That’s the picture that’s on the front page of the paper the next morning – the picture that’ll be praised and criticized, parodied and cherished, the one that’ll make it into tattoos and school lockers and lists of “Ten Moments That Changed Sports Forever”: four hands on the Stanley Cup, and underneath, a kiss. Simple, and joyful, and right.

That’s not the picture Sid has on his wall, though.

When Sid steps back, takes his hands off the Cup, Geno doesn’t shout or roar in triumph or shake the Cup; he asks Sid, blinking, “We can kiss? In front of everybody?”

“We can do anything,” Sid says, breathless and certain, holding Geno’s gaze.

Geno’s smile widens. “ _Yes_ ,” he says fiercely. “Yes.”

And that picture: the two of them smiling at each other, overflowing with joy at all the things that seem possible that didn’t before, at the way _everything_ seems possible now, every boundary broken, every fear left behind or overcome… _that’s_ the one on Sid’s wall. That’s the moment that means the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS NOT THE END! I know this one sounds kind of final, but I promise there is lots more to come.
> 
> On an unrelated note (well, mostly), I'm hoping to get more involved with the social side of fandom but I've been checked out of that aspect of things for so long that I'm not totally sure where, internet-wise, that's actually happening: tumblr? Twitter? Is one better than the other? Is there a third thing? If you feel moved to chime in with some advice, I'd appreciate it!


	15. S-E-X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geno gives the Cup another meaningful glance, then waggles his eyebrows at Sid.  
> When Sid realizes what Geno’s getting at, he groans and says, “No, Geno. Oh my god.”  
> “Come on, Sid,” Geno wheedles, “is Cup, is awesome, we win, Sid! And now,” he concludes, giving Sid an absolutely filthy smirk, “we fuck like winners.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone on tumblr wanted smut involving the Stanley Cup, and I was inspired. This is set in the soulbond universe, but it stands on its own. 
> 
> Warning (mostly tongue-in-cheek, pun completely intended) for defilement of a sacred object.
> 
> As I was trying to think of a title, this year's Stanley Cup playoffs commercial popped into my head and then I couldn't stop laughing. Enjoy!

“Sid,” Geno mutters in between kisses. “Sid, I want—” His hand is fisted in the back of Sid’s shirt, and his tone is insistent.

Sid nuzzles under Geno’s jaw, searching out his pounding pulse and laying a soft kiss on the spot where he finds it. His left hand is wrapped around Geno’s hip, so he can feel it every time Geno’s body shifts, trying to get friction Sid’s not giving him yet.

“Sid,” Geno says, louder, trying to get Sid’s attention, which strikes Sid as funny. How could Sid spare any attention for anything _but_ Geno when Geno’s body is so warm and alive under him, his skin sticky with champagne, his arms still trembling from the adrenaline of the game and then the celebration after—

“ _Sid_ ,” Geno says, tugging on Sid’s shirt and letting loose a stream of exasperated Russian words.

“Wha’s up?” Sid asks, making a heroic effort not to just bury his face in Geno’s neck again.

Geno shoots a significant look at something behind Sid.

At first, Sid thinks maybe someone is watching them, someone who snuck into the room, and he’s mortified – but when he turns around, there’s no one there. Nothing but the Cup, proudly settled on the hotel desk, gleaming in the low lamplight.

He turns back to Geno, confused. “Geno, what…?”

Geno gives the Cup another meaningful glance, then waggles his eyebrows at Sid.

When Sid realizes what Geno’s getting at, he groans and says, “No, Geno. Oh my god.”

“Come on, Sid,” Geno wheedles, “is Cup, is awesome, we _win_ , Sid! And now,” he concludes, giving Sid an absolutely filthy smirk, “we fuck like winners.”

Sid shakes his head. “We don’t need to _defile_ the Cup to fuck like winners,” he says firmly.

Geno pouts. “Don’t know what ‘defile’ means,” he replies, “but don’t care. Come on, Sid, always you make sex plans and I do your sex plans, but now _I_ have sex plan, and you don’t do?” He’s letting his hands make half the argument for him, teasing touches on Sid’s hips and Sid’s belly, always just missing the bulge of Sid’s erection in his shorts.

“Everybody already thinks I jerk off thinking about the Cup,” Sid complains. “Which I _don’t_.” He doesn't need to add fuel to that particular fire.

“Don’t?” Geno looks surprised, which Sid’s a little annoyed by until Geno says, without a hint of embarrassment, “ _I_ do.”

Sid squawks, “ _What?_ ”

Geno shrugs. “Winning is hot, Sid!”

Sid can’t argue with that. Telling himself that he’s not committing to _doing_ anything, just to listening, he says, “Okay, tell me your sex plan.”

“Yes!” Geno crows – obviously he thinks he’s won. He announces, “Sex plan is you put Cup in bed and put me over Cup, hips over Cup, and then you eat me out. Good plan, yes?”

It is a fact, absolutely an objective fact, as far as Sid is concerned, that the only thing that's better to kiss than the Cup is Geno. And it is also an objective fact, as far as Sid is concerned, that the only possible way to _improve_ the Stanley Cup would be to put Geno’s ass on top of it.

“Holy fuck,” he croaks. “I…” The only possible downside is how fucking smug Geno’s going to be once Sid says yes, but… Sid’s not finding that very persuasive right now. “You’re cleaning it off afterward,” he warns, but Geno lights up with glee anyway - he knows a "yes" when he hears one.

“Best, Sid, you best!” he declares, bounding up off of the bed to retrieve the Cup. He takes a brief detour into the bathroom for the judicious application of a wet washcloth, shedding his clothes along the way, and when he comes back, he stops to pose naked with the Cup for Sid’s enjoyment.

“You’re lucky Jen put the fear of god into us about our phones getting hacked,” Sid tells him, feasting on the sight. “Otherwise I would totally be taking pictures of this.”

Geno laughs. “ _I_ don’t care,” he replies. “Take all pictures. Jerk off to pictures when you miss me.”

Sid rolls his eyes. “Just get over here.”

Geno does as he’s told, placing the Cup on its side on the bed. Then he sprawls out beside it and gives Sid a come-hither look.

“I thought you wanted to be bent over the Cup,” Sid points out.

A slow smile spreads over Geno’s face. “No,” he purrs, “I want _you_ bend me over Cup. I want _you_ put me, put me how you want. And I know you like, too. Like _most_.”

Sid makes a strangled sound, half arousal, half frustration. Geno really does know him so fucking well. “Come on, then,” Sid says – his voice comes out rough. “Let’s put you where you belong.” He sees Geno shiver at his words, and has the feeling that neither of them are going to last very long, once they get started.

He arranges Geno over the Cup to his satisfaction, nudging Geno down onto his elbows so as to best display his gorgeous ass. “You look fucking unbelievable,” he rasps.

Geno moans, then begs, “Touch me, Sid, _pozhaluysta—_ ”

“Yes,” Sid says mindlessly. Then he gets to work.

He knows pretty well by now how to drive Geno crazy with his mouth, and he knows neither of them are in the mood for teasing, so he dives straight in, pulling Geno’s generous asscheeks apart and licking a long, wet stripe up between them. As he focuses in more tightly on Geno’s hole, flicking the tip of his tongue across it, he can hear Geno moaning frantically, a little muffled by the sheets. Then he feels the shift in Geno’s body as he moves one arm underneath himself and starts to jerk off – much sooner than he usually does when Sid goes down on him. _He’s really fucking worked up by this_ , Sid thinks wonderingly. Then he realizes his own hips are twitching, trying to rub his erection against the inside of his pants, desperate for any friction, and ruefully amends, _We’re both really fucking worked up by this_.

Sid knows he can be kind of possessive. But he wasn’t prepared for what it would feel like to have Geno spread out on top of the Cup like this, and to know, as he pleasures Geno, that everything under his hands and mouth is _his_. Not his by birth or by accident, but his because he _earned_ them. He worked for the Cup, obviously. But he’s worked hard for Geno, too – worked to be honest, to be supportive, to make the compromises that are the lifeblood of a healthy relationship. He’s worked to be worthy of Geno, to be the kind of partner that Geno deserves. And Geno’s presence here in his bed is proof that, in Geno’s eyes, he _is_ enough. He is worthy.

Of course, Sid works hard at _this_ , too – at making Geno feel good, giving him what he wants. He knows when Geno wants him to move from fast licks to slow thrusts with his tongue, knows the way will Geno groan when Sid gives his hole a lush, wet kiss. He knows when the filthy Russian spilling out of Geno’s mouth mean that Geno’s about to come, and he pulls back long enough to say thickly, “Do it, Geno. Come on the Cup. You can. It’s ours.”

Geno makes a high, shocked noise at Sid’s words, and his hips jerk under Sid’s hands. A second later, his hips spasm again, and Sid can _hear_ the splatter of his jizz landing on the smooth surface of the Cup.

“Damn,” Sid says, with feeling. He presses the pad of his thumb to Geno’s hole, which is sweetly loose from the attention of Sid’s tongue. It flutters under his touch, and Sid’s heart makes the ungainly thump that it always does when he’s reminded of the incredible vulnerability of Geno’s body. “You are so amazing,” he tells Geno, with almost-embarrassing sincerity.

“Yes,” Geno murmurs, languid and self-satisfied. “Cup ours,” he agrees, lifting one hand to pat it affectionately. “Mine, yours. And I’m yours also.”

It mirrors so closely what Sid was thinking earlier, sending a jolt to Sid’s cock.

“And now you come on both, yes?” Geno proposes, twisting around to give Sid a wicked grin. He reaches for Sid’s waistband. “I help.”

Geno doesn’t stop helping once Sid’s shorts are out of the way. He reaches back a hand to pull his own cheeks apart and urges Sid, “Here, you fit good here.”

Sid folds himself over Geno’s body and the Cup, making their bodies a double arch. He slots his erection in between Geno’s cheeks and gasps when Geno squeezes his glutes. He can still feel the wetness his tongue left behind—the slick spot where he’d given Geno pleasure—and he angles his hips so his dick rubs over it as he thrusts, making Geno moan. He’s got one hand on the warm skin of Geno’s hip and one hand on the cool curve of the Cup, and right now, he’s on top of the fucking world.

Winning _is_ hot, and why shouldn’t Sid get off on it?

His thrusts speed up, and he can feel his orgasm coming in the roll of his hips – Geno must feel it, too, because he shoves Sid back and says, “Come on both, Sid, you come on it, too, is _ours—_ ”

And Sid totally gets why Geno basically came immediately when Sid said the same to him, because _fuck_ is that hot – he wraps a hand around his cock for a few last thrusts, and then gives it up, eyes shut tight from the force of his pleasure.

When he opens them again, after a minute to catch his breath, he feels a powerful surge of arousal—and a satisfaction deeper than arousal—at the sight before him. There are dots of his come on Geno’s ass, and even more on the body of the Cup, starting to trickle down the side and spread the mark of his possession even further. Sid is perfectly well aware that this is immature as hell and totally silly, and not hot in a way that anyone but another hockey player would understand, but _damn_. Damn, that’s good. That is a fucking good feeling.

He and Geno sort of pile off to the side and lie spooned together, contemplating the mess they’ve made of this sacred artifact.

“Good plan, yes?” Geno asks, sounding a little awed.

“Fucking _great_ plan,” Sid responds. He sort of hopes he came on the part of the Cup with the ’08 Red Wings on it.

They fall silent for a little while, breathing together.

“I meant it, about you cleaning it off afterward,” Sid mumbles, yawning.

Geno grumbles, “Yes, yes, okay.” He strokes a hand down Sid’s arm. “But not clean yet, yes? A little while, we enjoy.”

Sid considers that, and yeah, that sounds right. “Okay. For now, we enjoy it.” As much as he hates to think about it, the Cup won’t always be theirs. It’ll go to other teams, and other players, other captains. But he kind of likes the feeling, irrational and slightly gross as it is, that it’ll always be theirs now in this one way. That he and Geno have claimed it, together – one more thing for them to share, until they’re old and grey and not a single ring from this Cup remains. It may be a silly feeling. But it’s a good one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also on [tumblr](http://youhideastar.tumblr.com)!


	16. The Birthday Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sid doesn’t know why anyone ever bothers saying “your presence but no presents” for a birthday party, because in his experience, people are going to bring presents no matter what you say._

Sid doesn’t know why anyone ever bothers saying “your presence but no presents” for a birthday party, because in his experience, people are going to bring presents no matter what you say. Still, he tried – and, of course, there’s now a pile of gifts on the table in his kitchen, where he is taking a little break from all the socializing.

“So many presents!” Geno remarks gleefully as he walks in—because he, of course, is the kind of person who _never_ says “no presents,” even though he has more than enough money to buy himself whatever he wants. _Who’s not like presents, Sid?_ he said, baffled, when he read Sid’s party invitation. _Is get stuff, and also is surprise! Best!_

“I told everyone not to,” Sid grumps.

Geno laughs and reels Sid in with an arm around his waist. “Nobody respect Captain,” he teases, giving Sid a peck on the cheek. “Just want to give him nice things, so sad.”

Sid gives him a halfhearted glare. “They’re going to make me open them in front of everybody, too.”

“Yes,” Geno agrees, cheerfully. “Is fun, Sid!”

Sid sighs and says, “I guess I should start with yours – is it on top of the pile?”

With a secretive smile, Geno shakes his head. “No, is not for party. I’m give you after. Is most special present,” he adds proudly, explaining, “Best present, is make everyone else embarrassed their presents so bad, you know; have to give in private.”

Sid grins. “So this is the one and only time you don’t want to embarrass people, huh?”

Geno sniffs and delivers one of the most blatant lies Sid has ever heard. “I’m _never_ want to embarrass, Sid, I’m too nice.” He almost gets through it with a straight face, too, before a twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him at the last minute.

As Sid is cracking up, Tanger sticks his head into the kitchen and scowls at them both. “Are you hiding in the kitchen at your own fucking birthday party?”

“No!” Sid protests, although, yeah, he kind of was. He covers with: “I’m just… looking at the presents.”

“Oh, yeah, good idea,” Tanger says before turning to yell over his shoulder, “Hey, guys, Sid’s going to open presents now!”

“I didn’t say that,” Sid sputters, but he knew this was coming, and he doesn’t really mind too much.

After the party, as soon as the last of their guests are gone, Geno pulls Sid into his side and kisses his temple. “You ready for my present now, Sid?”

Sid’s stomach is full of butterflies as he imagines what kind of stuff Geno might have planned for a “most special” present. “Yeah,” he breathes.

But then Geno announces, smiling, “Okay, I get,” and heads down the hall.

_So, not sex, then_ , Sid concludes, laughing at himself a little – he had thought it might be, especially since Geno didn’t want to give him the “present” in front of other people. _That’ll teach me to have a dirty mind_.

_Although… it could be a toy_ , he thinks, biting his lip – Geno is getting more comfortable using Sid’s toys as they both get more practice, but the idea of Geno picking out a toy of his own for them to share is… yeah, Sid likes that thought a lot.

But when Geno comes trotting back down the hall holding a small, brightly wrapped rectangle, Sid figures it’s probably not a toy. _Oh_ , he thinks, a little disappointed in spite of himself. _It’s an actual, like, present-present._

Geno looks so proud, though—he’s practically glowing as he holds the gift out to Sid—that Sid’s disappointment evaporates. Geno is one of the most competitive people Sid’s ever met, so Sid figures Geno wouldn’t look this psyched about a present unless he was damn sure it was going to be the best one Sid would get all year.

When Sid rips off the paper, he sees it’s a romance novel, titled…

“ _The Viscount and the Cossack_ ,” he reads aloud, flipping to the back for the summary. When he reads the first few lines, he does a double take. “Oh man, this is set in the Crimean War – I’ve never read one like this before!” Sid loves all his Age of Sail and World War II romance novels, don’t get him wrong, but they kind of start to blur together after a while, and he’s been craving a new setting. When he flips back to the front cover and notices the author is one of his most reliable favorites, he gets twice as excited.

“This is fantastic, G,” Sid says, looking up to meet Geno’s broad smile with one of his own. “Seriously, just what I needed.” He hasn’t had the time to go looking for a new book in months, so this is pretty much perfect.

“I find you one with Russian, see, Sid?” Geno points proudly at the Cossack on the cover, as excited as a kindergartener at show-and-tell. “So is best!”

“Yeah, that’s pretty cool,” Sid agrees. He would love to learn more about Russian culture, and he trusts this author to have done her research.

But then Geno’s brow furrows and he says anxiously, “But you don’t like him more, Sid, okay? I’m still best Russian for you.”

Sid shakes his head, trying not to laugh. “I promise I won’t like him more than you,” he says, as solemnly as he can manage. “You’ll always be my favorite Russian, okay?”

“Good,” Geno replies, apparently satisfied with that. He sighs and adds, “I try to find one with Russian _and_ Canadian, but can’t find so I get this – I see writer name on shelf when we put books, so I know is good.” More quietly, he says, “No bond crisis,” tapping on the book’s cover. “I check.”

Sid draws in a sharp breath; his eyes are suddenly stinging. “Geno…” he gets out, but he doesn’t know what to say next. Geno told him once that Sid’s love for him felt like an ocean, and Sid thinks if he could read the way that Geno can, Geno’s love for him would feel just the same – deep and wide enough to surround him utterly, to bear him up on its waves. Geno is protective of him; okay, everybody knows that. But only Sid knows how that care extends to things like this – protecting Sid from dangers that he wouldn’t have even known to fear until the trap was sprung. Protecting Sid from the pull and burn of his own scar tissue.

Whatever Geno is getting from Sid through the bond—and it must be everything, Sid’s sure he’s blown wide open right now—he reacts to it by wrapping Sid up in his arms and holding him tight. “Of course I’m check,” he murmurs fiercely. “Of course I’m not give you thing that hurt you. Never.”

“Yeah,” Sid whispers. “Yeah, I know.” His arms are awkwardly tangled up between his chest and Geno’s, and the corner of the book is digging into his forearm. He’s still not in any rush for Geno to let go of him.

“Always I’m check,” Geno promises, squeezing Sid tight and then letting go just far enough to let Sid untangle his arms.

Sid tilts the book to the side so they can both see the cover. It really is the best present he got this year – probably one of the best ever. That’s Geno all over: showing his love by being competitive as hell. Fortunately, Sid is built the same way. They understand each other.

He asks, “Do you… want to read it to me?” He loves their tradition of reading to each other before bed or before a nap if one of them is stressed out or too wired to sleep, and since it’s Geno’s gift, he should get to share it, Sid thinks.

“English too bad,” Geno says apologetically, ducking his head. “Make me too slow and is frustrate. But… you read to me, maybe, yes?”

“For sure,” Sid agrees, pleased. He brushes a kiss over Geno’s cheek. “I’d like that.”

“Happy birthday, Sid,” Geno murmurs, returning the kiss and nuzzling Sid’s nose a little, affectionately.

Sid smiles and leans into Geno’s body. “It was,” he says. “It really was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is loved!


	17. First Comes Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It seemed so easy when we thought about it like that,” Sid tells Gretchen over coffee—well, coffee for him, steamed milk with caramel syrup for her. “You know… we want babies, getting married will help, so we’ll do it.”_
> 
> _Correctly reading his expression, Gretchen says shrewdly, “But it isn’t that easy, huh?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did, like, ten minutes of research into Pennsylvania family law, so please forgive any inaccuracies.
> 
> Thank you to [werebear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/werebear/pseuds/werebear) for beta-reading this!

“You’ve got the savings to cover the surrogacy payments, you’ve got a signed contract with your surrogate, you’ve got your immigration situation squared away…” The lawyer beams at them. “They only thing left on the to-do list is the marriage thing!”

Sid had made the poor decision to take a sip of water as she was speaking, and it is only by a major effort of will that he manages not to spray it all over her desk. As he hastily swallows the water, he shoots a surreptitious look at Geno—or, it’s _supposed_ to be surreptitious. When he looks over, he finds Geno already watching him, and they both quickly look away. He’s a little embarrassed—okay, a lot embarrassed—to be doing this slapstick routine in front of their attorney, but… _‘The marriage thing,’_ he thinks. _Did not see that coming._

Apparently reading the mood of the room, the lawyer amends, “I mean, you don’t _have_ to get married, if you don’t want to. It just makes things easier, legally. But if you have objections—”

“Can we, uh, get back to you on that?” Sid asks. Whether or not they’re going to get married seems like the kind of thing he and Geno should talk through beforehand, but he’d rather they didn’t have that conversation in her office.

“Of course,” she replies, with an understanding smile. “No rush – you’ve still got seven months, after all. We’ll talk again in a month, all right?”

“Great,” Sid says, and he hustles out of there just as fast as he can.

He and Geno make it to the car in perfect silence, both lost in their own thoughts.

_I’m the fucking worst_ , Sid thinks, embarrassed all over again at the thought that marriage, a wedding, had never occurred to him. That’s what you _do_ when you love someone: you fall in love, you bond, and then you get married, with an optional bonus step of having kids afterward. That’s the dream, and Sid knows that lots of people spent their whole lives fighting so that dream would be open to him and Geno.

Of course, he and Geno had already sort of done things in the wrong order by bonding first and becoming a couple second. But he should at least have _thought_ of proposing, and now it’s going to seem like he’s only doing it because of the legal stuff, instead of being romantic like it _should_ be, like Geno _deserves—_

Then Geno’s voice cuts into Sid’s racing thoughts.

“I don’t think of marry,” he says quietly, a little shame-faced when he takes the opportunity of a stop sign to look over at Sid.

_Well, okay_ , Sid thinks, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. _That’s at least a little bit of a relief—at least Geno hasn’t been sitting around for years waiting for me to ask him._ Although that doesn’t really sound like Geno, now that he thinks of it.

“I haven’t either,” Sid admits. “I don’t know why—”

“You don’t think of _any_ relationship, before,” Geno points out.

“That’s true.” Sid had always assumed he wouldn’t be _able_ to get married, so he’d never bothered thinking about it, or what it would be like to propose, or see a ring on his finger.

“And for me, how I grow up,” Geno says, ruefully, “think of wedding with two men is like think of wedding… in Mars, you know?”

Sid nods – now that Geno says it, it’s obvious. “Yeah, I bet.”

Geno huffs out a breath and swings the steering wheel around to the left. When he’s driving on the straightaway again, he says, “But now is help with babies, so… we do, yes?” He peers at Sid, clearly hanging on Sid’s response.

“I… I guess we should, yeah,” Sid says, but as soon as he says it, he knows it’s not the right thing to say, or at least, it’s not enough by itself. Feeling like he’s walking on the bottom of a pond and testing his footing in the mud with every step, he asks carefully. “Do you… do you actually _want_ to get married, G? Because I think that’s kind of the most important part.”

Geno considers the question. When he eventually answers, the words come out slowly, as if he’s making sure he has all the words in the right order before he says them. “I think we have good relationship now. I don’t think we need marry-stuff—rings, court paper, cake, tax things—for us, for Sid-and-Geno. Maybe nice to have some of those things,” he acknowledges, “but we do very good already. So if it’s not help with babies, I don’t know. I don’t know if I want marry. But I want babies most, so if marry help with babies, I want for this.” He pulls into the driveway and puts the car in park. Then he twists around in his seat to look Sid in the eye. “You, Sid? You want?”

Sid chews on his lip. The truth is that Geno’s words captured a lot of Sid’s own thoughts about this. After everything they’ve been through together, the idea of getting some kind of government stamp of approval on their relationship seems… superfluous. If the bond crisis and getting outed and Geno choosing Sid over Russia and them winning three Stanley Cups wasn’t enough to keep them together, Sid doesn’t think a fancy ceremony or a gold ring is going to make much of a difference.

But… there _is_ still something missing from their relationship – something they both want very much. And if that fancy ceremony and that gold ring will ease the way to filling that gap, to starting their own little family, then Sid will do it and be glad. It’s not like he _minds_ the thought of being married to Geno. So even if he thinks it’s a little silly for them to have to do this, he’s on board.

“I do,” he decides – then the significance of those words hits him, and he blushes. “F-for the same reason. It’s not a big deal to me either way, so if it’ll make the adoptions easier, then I want to do it.”

Geno nods, satisfied. “Then we get married.” He smiles at Sid and says cheekily, “I’m look good in white, yes?”

Sid smiles back. “You look good in any color,” he says truthfully. This time, Geno’s the one to blush.

*

“It seemed so easy when we thought about it like that,” Sid tells Gretchen the next day over coffee—well, coffee for him, steamed milk with caramel syrup for her. “You know… we want babies, getting married will help, so we’ll do it.”

Correctly reading his expression, Gretchen says shrewdly, “But it isn’t that easy, huh?”

Sid sighs. “We don’t have time to plan a wedding, for one thing.”

“Money helps with that.”

“I guess.” That’s not really the main problem, though. Sid pokes the foam on top of his coffee with a spoon and sighs again. “I’m worried about family stuff, too. My dad will come, but…he won’t like it. And I don’t want to deal with that. Of course, a lot of my extended family probably won’t come at all, so that’s a whole _other_ thing, and the people who _do_ come will take pictures and put them on Instagram, and reporters will write stories about it, and—”

It occurs to Sid that he should probably breathe at some point, so he shuts up and inhales.

“And you’re a private guy,” Gretchen finishes for him. “Yeah, I get that.” She takes a sip of her drink. “You know, all the problems you’re bringing up sound like wedding problems. Not marriage problems.”

Sid blinks, not sure what she means. “I don’t… they’re—they’re the same thing.”

She gives him an unimpressed look. “You can get a marriage license without throwing a big party, you know. There’s no box on the license form where you have to check, ‘yes, I hired a caterer and a string quartet.’”

Sid blinks again. He supposes she’s right, but… “Just… go down to City Hall or something?”

“Yeah.” Gretchen leans back in her chair and lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Why not?”

Sid has a very near brush with disaster when he opens his mouth to say, _Isn’t that just for knocked-up teenagers?_ Which would not be a nice thing to say in the first place, and which would be an especially bad idea given that he knows Gretchen’s age and he knows her son Corey’s age, and he can do math.

Instead, he shuts his mouth again, tries to think through what’s really bothering him about the idea. Finally, he settles on, “That doesn’t sound… very romantic.” _Like, at all_.

Gretchen’s eyebrows tick upward. “It didn’t sound like you guys are getting married for romantic reasons.”

“That’s true,” Sid owns, buying time by taking a big gulp of his coffee. “But… what if, now that we _are_ getting married, Geno _wants_ it to be romantic? He was talking about wearing white…”

“That, you’ll have to ask Big G,” Gretchen says, using her personal nickname for Geno.

Okay, yes, that would probably be the sensible thing to do. It would be really dumb to spend tens of thousands of dollars and make himself miserable to give Geno something that Sid’s not sure he even wants. Still, that’s not his only objection.

He asks, “What about my family – they’ll be disappointed to be left out—”

Gretchen narrows her eyes. “You _just_ said that like half of your family either wouldn’t come or they’d be a bitch about it.”

“Yeah…” Sid admits. And it’s true. Although he feels a little bad for the other half of his family, who probably _would_ feel left out. But there’s another concern, too.

“What about my friends?” he asks. _They_ would be happy for him. And they’d probably get a kick out of a wedding.

Gretchen shrugs. “If you want to have a fancy wedding just to please your friends, go for it. Just as long as you know that’s why you’re doing it: to please other people.”

Sid winces. That’s a pretty direct hit. And now he can hear Geno’s voice in his head: _When are you going to stop living for other people, Sid?_ It’s a fair question.

“Fuck,” Sid mumbles, hunching over his coffee mug and scrunching up his face in frustration.

Gretchen nudges him with her foot. “Hey. Don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out,” Sid says, which he thinks is true. “Just…” _Just falling back into unhealthy thinking that I’m supposed to be over by now. Ugh._

He sighs. “You’re right. I should just talk to Geno.”

“Yup,” she says, with a decisive nod.

*

That afternoon, when they’re lifting together in their home gym, Sid tells Geno, “I talked to Gretchen—”

Geno perks up and asks, “How is Gretchen? I hope is not throw up too much,” he adds, with a slightly guilty look.

“She’s good,” Sid assures him. “And no, she says she’s not throwing up as much as she did with Corey.”

Smugly, Geno says, “Our babies best.”

“Sure,” Sid says, entertained if not persuaded. “Anyway, she said something that I—I want to talk to you about.”

“About babies?” Geno asks anxiously.

“No. I mean, sort of related, but—” Sid blows out a breath and starts over. “She said a wedding and a marriage are different.”

“English,” Geno mutters with disgust.

“No, it’s not—well, yes, but.” Okay, apparently Sid needs to start over _again_. He racks his barbell and sits down on a weight bench to give the conversation his full attention. “It was more… I wanted to ask whether you want, like, a traditional wedding. Like—” _Fuck, how do I explain this?_ “—like a big party where we invite everyone we know and have, like, a best man, and there’s a priest—well,” Sid backtracks, “probably not a priest, for us, because, uh…”

“Sid.”

When Sid meets Geno’s eyes, Geno is looking at him with unshakeable fondness. “Just spit it out, yes?” he prompts.

“Right.”

Geno just keeps doing lunges while Sid tries, for the third time, to get his shit together. He’s been trying to be so careful not to give away what _he_ thinks – to stay totally neutral until he knows what Geno wants. But maybe that’s not the best way to do it. Maybe it’s time for Sid to put his cards on the table.

Slowly, he says, “I was thinking that it might be nice… _not_ to do all that. That it might be nice just to go to City Hall in our regular clothes on a day off and get a marriage license, and not have a photographer or a caterer or tuxes or flowers or that other stuff. But I want you to have—anything you want, basically,” he says, spreading his hands and dropping his shields to make sure Geno knows how much he means it. “So if you do want the whole traditional wedding, I’ll be happ—”

“I don’t want,” Geno says placidly, stepping forward into another lunge.

Sid’s mouth snaps shut. “Huh.” _Well, that was easy_ , he thinks. “You’re—are you sure?”

Geno nods. “Most sure.”

He sets his dumbbells on the ground and comes to sit next to Sid on the weight bench. Quietly, he says, “I think if we do this kind of big wedding, it’s make Mama and Papa uncomfortable. I think…” He hesitates, and Sid can feel him tense up, as if he’s about to say something he thinks Sid won’t like. “I think maybe is make _me_ uncomfortable,” he says, low. He shoots Sid a look, clearly trying to gauge his reaction; Sid, who has plenty of discomfort of his own at the thought of a public wedding, just grabs Geno’s hand and tries to look supportive. He’s not sure what part of this is hard for Geno, but he wants to make it easier if he can.

Whatever Geno sees on Sid’s face makes him relax; he sits back a little, settling his weight more on his hips, and squeezes Sid’s hand.

“Is just feel… weird,” he explains. “Like I say, when I grow up, think of wedding with two men is like different planet, and I’m live in America now a long time, but… is still little bit weird for me, think about wedding like pictures in my head, but _not_ like pictures in head because is not girl, dress, you know.” He shrugs helplessly and makes a face. Then his posture changes, curving in more toward Sid. Holding eye contact, he squeezes Sid’s hand and says, almost pleading, “Is not I feel weird about be with you, Sid. Is _not_.” And yeah, okay – Sid gets now why Geno was worried about saying this stuff to him—but it never even occurred to him to take it that way. Public is different than private, and Sid feels that distinction more deeply than most.

“I get that,” Sid says right away. “I totally get that. And like I was saying, I don’t want that anyway – something so public. So it’s good. We agree.”

“Yes.” Geno smiles and scooches closer to Sid on the bench. “So we go to, um... City Hall?”

Sid nods. “Yeah. We’ll need two witnesses—”

“Gretchen and Taylor,” Geno says decisively.

Sid blinks – he’s fine with that, but he’d sort of thought they’d need to think a little harder about it.

But Geno explains, “We do for babies, yes? So if we need two people, should be people who help us with babies. Because is all one thing.”

“Yeah. I—I like that,” Sid says – the thought of this being just another part of the project the four of them have taken on together. “I think that’s right.”

Geno lifts Sid’s hand to his lips and kisses it, then stands up. As he heads for the dumbbells, he offers, “Maybe nice to have party, though. After. Easy party, like team barbecue, you know?”

Sid reflects on that. A formal wedding reception would be too much, but something simple, just having a bunch of people over for barbecue and drinks and conversation… “Yeah, that sounds good,” he agrees. “It’ll be nice to give the people who want to celebrate with us—like the team, and my mom—a chance to do it.”

“And get presents,” Geno says, with a gleam in his eye.

“We’re already having a baby shower!” Sid protests, half-charmed and half-appalled at Geno’s avarice.

“Good, yes: two times presents,” Geno proclaims, smug again.

At that, Sid can’t do anything but laugh.

*

They fill out the marriage license application online, and after the three-day waiting period, they head for the courthouse with Gretchen and with Taylor, who flew in the night before. Sid had sort of intended to go in a polo shirt and jeans, but in the end, the solemnity of the occasion and the grandeur of the building are too much for him, and he and Geno agree to go in their game-day suits. Taylor packed a nice dress, and Gretchen shows up in a suit, too – “My interview suit,” she says in response to Taylor’s admiring look.

When they get to the clerk’s desk and pick up the license, Sid gestures at Taylor and Gretchen and says, “Um, we brought our witnesses…”

The clerk frowns, surprised. “Witnesses?” She reaches across the counter and taps on the license Sid just took out of its envelope. “You applied for a self-executing license, sir – that kind doesn’t need a ceremony or anything. You just have to sign it and register it.”

Sid flushes, embarrassed. “Oh.”

He turns to look at Geno, expecting to see a look of relief on his face. But instead, Geno is… pouting, kind of. He looks like—

_Like I feel_ , Sid admits. Probably he should be happy that they can be married with even less fuss than he expected, but Taylor and Gretchen are here, and they’re all dressed up…

And although he’s surprised to realize it, Sid can admit that he actually kind of _wanted_ the chance to say “I do,” in spite of what he thought. If they’re going to make this promise to each other, he wanted to actually _make_ it.

When she sees their confusion, the clerk’s expression softens. Leaning over the counter, she asks, “Want me to see if any of the judges are free?”

“I… if you wouldn’t mind,” Sid says sheepishly.

A few minutes later, the clerk ushers the four of them into the chambers of an older, dark-skinned woman with sharp cheekbones - Sid thinks she looks kind of like he imagines LaShawn might look in twenty years. She smiles at Sid and Geno and says, “You two are the grooms, I’m guessing. Do you have vows picked out?”

“Um, no,” Sid admits, after a quick glance at Geno to make sure he’s speaking for both of them. “I just sort of wanted the… ‘I do’ part. I don’t know, maybe this isn’t…”

But the judge just nods briskly and says, “Nice and simple, all right. So you two just face each other—do you have rings?”

“Um, no…” Sid says, embarrassed yet again at how unprepared they seem, but the judge doesn’t seem like she’s… well, judging them.

“Makes it even simpler,” she says firmly. “Face each other, take each other’s hands—”

Sid and Geno obey her orders, sharing a quick, nervous smile.

“And you, ladies, put your hands on their shoulders, give them some moral support… yes, that’s good. All right.” She clears her throat. “Do you, Sidney Crosby, take this man, Evgeni Malkin, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Sid says, and he surprises himself by getting a little choked up as he says it.

_“As long as you both shall live_ ,” the judge had said; Sid knew, when he bonded with Geno, that it would probably last for their whole lives, but this is the first time he’s expressly promised to stay with Geno _romantically_ for his entire life. It was strongly— _very_ strongly—implied, god knows, by all the actions they’ve taken since. But there’s a surprising power in actually saying the words, especially in front of witnesses.

The judge turns to Geno. “And do you, Evgeni Malkin, take this man, Sidney Crosby, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for as long as you both shall live?”

Geno’s eyes are misty when he says, “I do,” and as soon as he gets the words out, he audibly sniffles.

_Of course he’s gonna cry_ , Sid thinks fondly.

The judge holds out a Kleenex from across her desk, smiling broadly. Once Geno takes it, she proclaims, “Then by the power vested in me by the State of Pennsylvania, I now pronounce you married. And…” Her eyes twinkle. “…Go Pens.”

Sid is surprised into laughter. All around him, Geno and Taylor and Gretchen—the people who make up the foundations of his own little family—are laughing, too. Geno is dabbing at his eyes with one hand while still clinging tightly to Sid’s hand with the other, and Taylor is giving the judge a thumbs-up, while Gretchen hides her face in her Sid’s shoulder, probably embarrassed to be associated with them. It’s everything he could have wanted out of a wedding.

*

They have a game tomorrow, so the post-wedding party that Sid’s mom insisted on calling a wedding reception doesn’t run too long.

(Sid vigorously denied having planned it that way on purpose, but no one was fooled.)

There’s a pile of totally unnecessary presents in the dining room, so Geno is thrilled, and now everybody is out of the house by midnight, so Sid is equally happy.

“Bed, eh?” he suggests to Geno.

“Bed, yes,” Geno agrees, nodding enthusiastically. “Have to, um, _con-summ-ate_ for marriage, right, Sid?”

Sid rolls his eyes. “We’ve been fucking for two years, I don’t think—”

“Have to have wedding night,” Geno sniffs. He turns and gives Sid a look of suspicious earnestness, saying, “Is very important for my culture.”

“You are so full of shit,” Sid says, entirely with love, and he follows Geno down the hall to the bedroom.

In the bedroom, Geno flings off his clothes with flattering urgency, then shimmies onto the bed buck naked and grinning. “Wedd-ing ni-ight!” he carols.

Sid opens his mouth to point out, again, that they’re not exactly new to this, but Geno cuts him off.

“Yes, okay,” he says, flapping his hands as if to dismiss Sid’s objections, “I’m get fucked very good by bondmate lots, but! Never get fucked by _husband_ ,” he proclaims.

With Sid’s own clothes finally shed, he climbs onto the bed and straddles Geno’s hips. He leans down for a brief but heated kiss, and then pulls back to say, “I don’t want to disappoint you, but I don’t think it’s gonna be that different.”

“Well,” Geno says optimistically, winding his arms around Sid’s back to pull him close, “is never hurt to try!”

Sid is right – it’s not that different. He can’t say that he’s surer of Geno’s love or attraction than he was before, because he’s not; he can’t say that he feels more possessive now than before, because he doesn’t. What they have isn’t made or broken by a law or a vow or a celebration, or by any words other than “I love you.”

But Sid is especially tender tonight, because he remembers that Geno cried when he said “I do.” And Sid fucks Geno especially slowly tonight, because he remembers “ _as long as you both shall live,”_ and the immensity of that dear expanse of time seems very, very close right now. And Sid holds Geno especially tightly when it’s over, because he remembers that he promised to do that—“ _to have and to hold_ ”—and he knows the words are meant to be general, but Sid doesn’t think that’s any reason not to take them seriously.

“Good, good wedding night,” Geno croons when it’s over, wiggling a little against Sid’s front as he gets comfortable. He’s glowing with satisfaction, his earlier smugness firmly back in place… but Sid noticed thin tear tracks over his temples when he cleaned Geno up with a washcloth. So Sid knows it affected him, too.

“It was a good wedding night,” Sid agrees. “And a pretty good wedding day, too, eh?”

“Perfect,” Geno says muzzily, already on his way down to sleep. “Because we do how we want.”

“Yeah,” Sid replies, smiling against the back of Geno’s neck. “Exactly.” Their wedding plans didn’t result in fancy pictures for them to frame and put on the mantelpiece, but Sid doesn’t care: they can cover the mantel with baby pictures instead. _Yeah,_ Sid thinks. _That’ll be nice._ _That’ll be really nice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is loved! Just pasting a line or two that stood out to you means a lot.


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